Philip Kerr - January Window

I hate Christmas. Im almost forty years old and it seems that Ive hated it for more than half my life. I used to play professional football and I now coach others to do the same, so Christmas is a time of year I associate with a fixture list thats as crowded as Hamleys toy shop. It means early-morning training on frostbitten pitches, niggling hamstrings that dont have time to be properly rested, boozed-up fans expecting much more of their team than seems reasonable to say nothing of the high expectations entertained by an unforgiving club owner or chairman and so-called easy games against bottom-of-the-table chumps that can end up biting your arse.

This year is no different. We play Chelsea away on Boxing Day with the result that early on Christmas morning when ninety-nine per cent of the country is busy opening presents, going to church, watching the telly in front of a nice fire, or just getting pissed, were at our training ground in Hangmans Wood, Thurrock. Two days later, on the twenty-eighth, were away again, to Newcastle, before a New Years Day game at home to Tottenham Hotspur. Three games in six days. Thats not sport, thats a fucking ironman triathlon. When people who are involved in professional football talk about the beautiful game, they generally dont include the Christmas holidays. And whenever I remember that Boys Own story about a friendly football match in no mans land during the First World War between British and German soldiers, I think to myself, yeah, Id like to see them try that without a goalkeeper whos properly fit and fielding a lazy cunt of a midfield centre whos hoping to get transferred to another club for double his already stratospheric wages during the January window. Thats what we call the four-week transfer period that exists in the middle of the season when FIFA says a European club can register a new player. Frankly the whole idea of the January window is a stupid idea but thats typical of FIFA because it brings on a garage-sale mentality where clubs try to offload their dead wood and pay over-the-top money for some flash golden boy who might keep them in with a chance of winning something or just staying in their league. Having said all that, theres no doubt that every manager is looking to buy players: the right deal can decide the league title, or save you from relegation. You only have to see which players have been bought in recent January windows to see the value of signing someone halfway through the season: Luis Suarez, Daniel Sturridge, Philippe Coutinho, Patrice Evra, Nemanja Vidic all arrived at their clubs during the January window. If youve ever been part of a housing chain, when a whole series of punters cant buy a new house until theyve sold their old one, then youll begin to appreciate the squeaky-bum complexity of what goes on in January. Personally, I think things were better the way they used to be when the window was always open; but then I am the kind of person who thinks nearly everything about the game was better before Sky TV, instant replays and the 2005 IFAB change to the offside rule made it what it is now.

But theres another, altogether darker reason I dont much like Christmas. Back in 2004, on 23 December, I was found guilty of rape and sentenced to eight years in prison, and you dont have to be the ghost of Jacob fucking Marley to explain how that might exercise a negative effect on anyones Christmas, past, present and future.

But Ill come back to that later on.

My name is Scott Manson and I am the team coach for London City. Because I always train with the lads I like to set an example, so for me this means no alcohol from 22nd December until the evening of New Years Day. Its a bit like being a Jehovahs Witness at some dumb WAGs lavish Hello! wedding. No alcohol, no late nights, a sensible diet and definitely no smoking; God forbid that I or more likely, Maurice McShane, the clubs fixer should see one of my players in a magazine behind the wheel of his car coming away from a nightclub on Christmas Eve with a Silk Cut in his hand. Ive even handed out a bollocking to a centre forward for getting a dragon tattoo a Christmas present from his brain-dead wife on the day before a New Years Day derby. In case you didnt know, tattoos hurt like shit, plus the inks and pigments can be contaminated and these sometimes cause nausea, granulomas, lung disease, joint infections and eye problems. Youve heard of the text in the Bible that says your body is a temple? This is especially true for footballers, and youd better pray you dont fucking damage yours if you want to keep on being paid a hundred grand a week. I mean it; you want to buy a footballer something nice for Christmas? Get him a box set of DVDs and a bottle of Acqua di Parma. Just dont give him a voucher to cover his temple in graffiti at least not before were done with the holiday and early January fixtures.

In the event London City, drew 00 against Manchester United, lost 43 to Newcastle, won 21 against Tottenham all of which left us ninth in the Premier League and drew 00 with West Ham in the first leg of the Capital One Cup. But none of that seemed to matter at least not to me because in the fifth minute of the match at Silvertown Dock against the Tots, Didier Cassell, our first-choice goalkeeper, suffered a serious head injury after colliding with the post in an attempt to save a powerful, curling shot from Alex Pritchard.

The impact makes for sickening viewing; at first everyone thought the sound picked up by the microphone beside the goal was the ball hitting the advertising hoarding, and it was only after Sky Sports had shown the incident several times in slow motion which must have delighted Didiers family that people realised the thud you could hear was actually the goalkeepers skull fracturing against the post. Im not sure who was more upset, our own lads or the ones from Tottenham.

Cassell was knocked unconscious and he was still insensible when he was carried off the pitch by the St John Ambulance men. Four days later hes still unconscious in hospital. No one is using the word coma no one except the newspapers, of course, they all have him playing in goal for the team eternal but with a third round FA Cup tie away to Leeds United scheduled for the weekend, were already looking to buy a replacement goalkeeper from my dads old club, Heart of Midlothian, whose creditors think that paying their debts is more important than not conceding goals. Kenny Traynor is a bargain at nine million quid, which is almost two thirds of what the Jambos apparently owe the banks.

Our recently appointed manager, Joo Gonzales Zarco, spoke about Didier Cassell in his usual enigmatic fashion with all the television cameras and reporters who were waiting on the pavement outside the Royal London Hospital when he and I went to visit him:

I dont want to talk about replacement goalkeepers. Please dont ask me that kind of question. At this particular time all of our thoughts are with Didier and his family. Obviously we wish him a speedy recovery. All I can say about what happened is that no matter how many plans you make or how much in control of a team you are, life is always putting the ball in the back of your net. An often emotional man, Zarco wiped a tear from his eye as he added, Listen, in football you cant play under the floodlights without there being shadows, and its essential to know that. Every player, every manager in our league understands what its like to play under a shadow sometimes. However, I should also like to say this and Im speaking now to those of you who have written or said things that shouldnt ever be said when a brave young man is fighting for his life: Im like an elephant. I dont forget who says what and when. I dont forget. So when all this is over I will trample all over you, wipe my arse with your words and then piss on your heads. The rest of you should always remember that at London City we are a close family. One of our favourite sons is sick, yes. But we will get through this. I promise you, this club will walk in the light again. And so will Didier Cassell.