Devil’s Music

In Shenley, Hertfordshire, close to London, England, where Arsenal FC's youth team uses the field as their home stadium, the youth development director, Andris Jonker, was a young coach born in 1962. He had been recognized for his abilities as the senior coach, having held the baton at MVV Maastricht, and was appointed as the senior coach at Bayern Munich, the strongest team in the Bundesliga, thanks to his connections with coach Louis van Gaal during his time at FC Barcelona. He had served as the acting coach for the remainder of the 2003/2004 season after Louis van Gaal was dismissed.

With slightly long brown hair and dressed in a tracksuit, Andris widened his eyes as he took a call in his office.

“Yes? The coach is coming to visit in person?”

Andris stood up hastily, ended the call, and switched to the intercom.

“Ah, Steve? It’s me. Coach Arsène Wenger is coming to Shenley personally, so please pay extra attention to the training. We don’t want to give the grumpy coach any reason to pick on us. Yes, thank you.”

After hanging up the intercom, Andris shook his head as he looked at Arsenal FC's league performance on his laptop screen.

“Phew, hanging on to fourth place in the league this year seems tough. The only thing to hope for might be the FA Cup, especially since we'll face FC Barcelona in the Round of 16 of the Champions League. It seems like he’s coming to check on the second team to validate their skills before swapping them into the Champions League and Premier League.”

Pondering over the youth team player reports on his laptop, Andris received a call through the intercom at the entrance and went to the stadium entrance. Seeing a bright orange Lamborghini Aventador parked in the distance, Andris chuckled to himself.

“When will I ever get to drive something like that as the first-team coach... But, he’s alone?”

Spotting coach Arsène Wenger alighting from the car alone, Andris quickly approached the parking area.

“Coach, you’ve arrived?”

“Oh, Andris. It’s been a while.”

Arsène Wenger raised his arms to lightly embrace Andris, casually placing a hand on his shoulder as they walked towards the club.

“So, have you eaten? Any difficulties lately?”

“Yes, what difficulties could there be? Just training as per the manual, nothing much else, haha.”

“Hehe, being on the front lines of coaching before, developing a youth program like this might seem tedious. But please, do take care, the future of Arsenal FC is in your hands.”

“Haha, how could I not? Let’s go inside.”

Arsenal FC's home stadium, Emirates Stadium, was far superior to the poor facilities of Shenley Stadium. Arsène Wenger stood in the second-floor spectator area, arms crossed, looking down at the young players sweating out fitness training. Since flexibility and balance were crucial physical elements for young players, Andris preferred training akin to yoga over direct football skills, so the players spent over half their day in such training sessions. Although no visible results had emerged yet, the club officials agreed with Andris's training methods, and thus, Arsenal FC's youth team was digesting his physical program that day.

Sitting on the floor stretching their legs, the players caught Arsène Wenger’s attention.

“See any promising lads?”

Andris, who had joined Wenger with arms crossed, shook his head.

“There are promising ones, but they’re still too young. Even if we tried, FIFA wouldn’t allow such young players to be pushed up.”

“None among the age-eligible players seem suitable?”

“Yes, some could handle the second team, but none seem ready for the first team yet.”

Arsène Wenger sighed, shaking his head, prompting Andris to ask softly.

“Is it because of the Champions League?”

“Yes, it’s the winter season and the players are exhausted. Add the Champions League and FA Cup to that, and we’re seeing physical issues. If left unchecked, injuries will soon follow.”

“Any players looking particularly at risk?”

“Well, the faster ones, generally. Being fast means they’re smaller and more agile, hence less physically robust. When clashing with the bigger EPL defenders using brute force, injuries are bound to happen.”

“The fast players would be Alexis Sanchez, Theo Walcott, and Danny Welbeck then.”

“Yes, and Petr Cech isn’t doing well either. He’s thirty-six, retiring wouldn’t be surprising at his age.”

“What about goalkeeper resources? David Ospina is there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, David’s a good goalkeeper, but he lacks the stability that Cech provides, having had an incredible career as Chelsea’s goalkeeper. The defense is more stable in matches Cech plays.”

“That makes sense; the core of a defense is a seasoned goalkeeper’s precise commands. Have you visited the second team yet?”

Arsène

Wenger grimaced, sitting down on the blue chairs in the spectator section.

“Yes, I visited Underhill yesterday, but the three guys Neil Banfield recommended were all lacking. It might be a few years before they’re ready, but right now, they aren’t viable options.”

Andris sat beside him, asking.

“Is there pressure from the front office?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Since we keep ending the season in fourth place, it seems the management doesn’t care unless it’s a win or a runner-up position. It’s tough.”

“But didn’t you win the FA Cup last year?”

Arsène Wenger gave a bitter smile.

“That’s true. But even the FA Cup isn’t considered a significant career achievement by other clubs’ management unless it’s part of a double or a treble win.”

“Being an FA Cup winner is still a huge deal, though. Being a first-team coach must be tough.”

Arsène Wenger frowned, crossing his legs.

“The funny thing is, they’re changing the anthem too. Oh, they’ll still use the old one, but they’re thinking of adding another.”

Andris tilted his head, puzzled.

“What’s so funny about that? It’s just one more anthem among many.”

Arsène Wenger rubbed his head, annoyed.

“It’s problematic because they’re spending a huge amount of money on it. With that money, they could buy two more promising players!”

“Really? How much are they spending on an anthem that could buy two prospects?”

Leaning back, Arsène Wenger sighed.

“Do you listen to rock music?”

“Haha, who in Britain doesn’t listen to rock music?”

“Hehe, aren’t you Dutch?”

“Having lived in England for a few years, I guess I’m getting used to it, haha.”

“Hehe, right. Anyway, they’re getting a song from a rock band called Montana.”

“What!? You mean Fury?”

Andris looked shocked, and Arsène Wenger eyed him up and down.

“You know it?”

“Of course! It’s the most talked-about music right now!”

“Well, that explains the cost.”

Arsène Wenger casually rested his legs on the seat in front of him, prompting Andris to ask.

“They’re acquiring that song?”

“Yep, there’s another one too.”

“Two songs? How much are they paying for both?”

“Luckily, they’re getting one for free, some young musician named Kay or something said so.”

“Wow, Coach, saying ‘Kay or something’ in public might get you stoned. She’s a musician with a massive fanbase.”

Arsène Wenger chuckled, waving his hand dismissively.

“Anyway, I’m not interested. Wait a moment.”

Pulling out a vibrating phone from his pocket, Arsène Wenger raised a hand to excuse himself before taking the call.

“Yes, what’s up?”

“What? The music’s arrived? Fine, I’m not interested. Let the front office handle it. Hang up.”

Arsène Wenger abruptly ended the call, his face showing irritation.

“They’re not thinking about enhancing the team, just music! What can music do?”

Andris spoke subtly, glancing around.

“But this issue... Since our club doesn’t have an owner and Arsenal Holdings is the owner, it must be pushed by the main shareholder, Stan Kroenke, right?”

Arsène Wenger shook his head.

“No, that fellow is only interested in results, not anything else. This is driven by Alisher Usmanov.”

“The second-largest shareholder?”

“Yes, EPL is done for. We have a stadium in the heart of England named after Emirates Airlines thanks to a sponsorship, and the second-largest shareholder is a Russian billionaire. Is this still an English league?”

“Haha, but Coach, you’re from France, aren’t you?”

“It’s different for a coach or player, but a league belonging to England being sponsored by another country doesn’t sit right with me. Anyway, forget about the music and focus on developing the youth players.”

“Understood.”

**

In a famous long-lived village in Abkhazia, Georgia.

This small village, which centers around livestock and yogurt production, is considered a global symbol of longevity to the extent that a famous Korean yogurt company has drawn Georgia’s map on their yogurt packaging. Gregory, holding a few skewers of well-cooked Georgian mtsvadi and a bottle of Georgia’s pride, house wine, was surprised to find Kiska sitting on the sofa watching TV as he placed the drinks and snacks on the side table.

Seeing Kiska’s expressionless face watching the TV, Gregory asked in surprise.

“Kiska? Why are you watching TV? You don’t like TV, and it’s a soccer game at that.”

Kiska glanced at Gregory coldly before turning her gaze back to the TV, prompting Gregory to sit beside her and laugh weakly as he reached for a plate of mtsvadi before the soccer game started.

Suddenly, Kiska leaned in and pecked her father on the cheek, leaving Gregory touching his cheek

in surprise and then breaking into a bright smile.

“Kiska, did you give daddy a kiss? Are you not mad anymore?”

Kiska turned her gaze back to the TV and spoke indifferently.

“No, Kay said if I kiss daddy twice a day for the next 200 nights, she’ll come to see me. She said she’ll call to check, so when she does, you have to tell her I’m doing well. Got it?”

Rubbing his cheek and smiling joyfully, Gregory nodded with a hollow laugh.

“Haha, whatever the reason, getting a kiss from my daughter feels like I could fly! Hehe”

As the soccer broadcast was about to start, Kiska’s chubby cheeks turned slightly red.

>

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