Questions about Chris Maarsden. The newspapers had set out the big data from this man. A record-breaking striker for Gwinevra Barbarians, Issington FC and his national team. A career hampered by a ligament injury during a friendly against the Polar Islandstates at age thirty. A hesitating start as a national manager with a short stint as assistant for the Apoxian squad, followed with a success story with the sympathetic Wye United, leading them from the second tier into silverware.
But those were not the kind of questions the lads would ask him. What was he like? What system would he pick out? Could he handle a joke or was he a stiff upper lip type? Would he want them to throw in everything they’ve got, not caring about the consequences? Would he let me play? And where?
But that was not the real question they had in mind. Would he save this squad from the nerves which had them in a firm grip? Would he manage to make them fulfil the expectations, set so unbelievably high after that glorious World Cup and unexpected luck in the Campionato?
With that on his mind, Sverre entered the brand-new Anders Bergh National Football Complex, named after the unfortunate former Jottnar goalie who had recently passed away after a courageous yet hopeless battle against cancer. The project had been one a personal project of Reinhard Shale, one of the many large and small elements with which the Nepharim had really sent Buyanese football into the twenty-first century.
Reinhard Shale... Devold shook his head. There was no use in thinking about the man who had been declared ‘the past’ by the BFB. For Sverre, it had come as a shock even with the amount of signals given by the specialised press in advance. It felt unfair as he knew that Shale had done everything within his might to get the engine running despite the glaring fact that too many players were out of shape - a fact which revealed the painful truth that this squad was a collection of rather ordinary players, notwithstanding a few exceptions. No, Sverre realised, there was no use in thinking about Shale now. Besides, would he think about us again?
When he entered and firmly placed his bag underneath the large number ten which had been hung up against the wall, he looked at those present already. Pawlo Marciak, fumbling in his corner. Tjelberg teammates Raestad and Lammerschon having a chat. Over there were Ruutu and Giertych, Ullsmang and Saldlund. Sigi Prinsen and Risto Pajari sharing a laugh. Bit by bit, the realisation fell to him that he was the senior amongst this crew. Sverre attempted to salvage himself with the knowledge that veterans Smetona and Rettinger were notorious upon arriving late, but all in all, it did leave a certain annoying feeling.
“Anything I can get you?” the gentle voice of Dahle broke his train of thought.
“No, all fine,” Sverre responded.
There would have been a time when he would have found a cocky answer to that, when he was a young go-getter who somehow turned out to be the hottest thing to walk Buyanese pitches. An arrival in the Barbury dressing room had quickly made him discover his spot - and his very own character. With the act shook off, he had changed into a pensive young man and later on into a pensive man. Today, he started to discover that he was becoming a pensive veteran. It even bothered him a little that those young kids like Dahle, with his cheeks like fresh apples and those two kilos of baby fat around his waist, treated him with such respect.
With said aura hanging around him, it was no surprise that he was the first target to Adam Kossakovsky as he entered. Whilst the remainder of the room went silent, Sverre tried to play it cool by fumbling some more with his shoelaces as he walked up to him. The Polarian assistant of Maarsden looked as if he could immediately get back on the pitch and net some free kicks with his notorious left boot in case of an emergency.
“We’re going to hit the pitch at once, Chris is looking forth to meeting you all,” he spoke with that typical northern accent.
“All right,” Sverre responded, looking up to the man.
There was something in his glance which revealed the meaning of those words. Within that short sentence, there was a question. It was one of those one-sentence questions which demanded nothing but a simple yes or no - in terms of words - but a connection and commitment to go across years - in fact.
“All right,” Sverre repeated, “I’ll get them round up in five.”
Bench: Saldlund, Marciak, Raestad, Ruutu, Smetona, Venclova, Moen, Lammerschon, Ullsmang, Balnerii, Dahle, Pajari
“Hi lads...”
Maarsden had a remarkably soft voice, Sverre Devold thought, before his attention was sucked towards the slide which had been projected against the wall.
“I’m fully aware that this is different from what you’ve grown accustomed to lately. And I’m as aware that this won’t come from my notebook onto the pitch in seconds... But with the right amount of work and dedication, we’ll make this work.”
4-4-1-1, with a sole striker. Espen Knutsen, the attacker-turned-midfielder as a false number ten. Castell and Pajari as wide wingers instead of a powerful duo of box-to-boxes. Duco Dalmshelf as sole striker instead of a partnership.
Afterwards, Devold was thinking about how much joy the press would have with overanalysing this line-up. Right now, all he could focus was on the position Maarsden was expecting of him.
Sonar '16 (E. Everdeen)
Unknown '55 (Unknown)
Equestrian States 9 6 3 0 19 8 +11 21
Kandorith 9 6 2 1 27 14 +13 20 
Buyan 9 6 1 2 13 8 +5 19 
Matthewsiania 9 5 1 3 17 10 +7 16 
Kernansquillec 9 4 1 4 22 18 +4 13 
KRN 2-5 
Estenia 9 3 1 5 8 11 −3 10 
Thibaut 9 0 2 7 2 20 −18 2 E
Windsor Islands 9 0 1 8 7 26 −19 1 E
