Ivy Herrick had had to pull a few strings to get here. More than a few. Fortunately, Nepharim being who they were, strings could generally be pulled by enough force of personality. Herrick had gallons of that to spare, enough capital to almost outweigh the fact that everyone thought she was insane. Almost.
Maybe Herrick was a little unbalanced, but she had everyone in the world telling her she was 38. If she counted back the current year to her birth year, that was 38 years; with this, she was on-board. She looked ... like someone in her late 30s. Swarthy, squared-off, broadening slightly in the beam.
She was not 38. She was absolutely not 38. She had far more experience than that coursing through her mind. She'd finished up her career in Bonesea, an obscure and bizarre land known most in Nephara through The Memoirs of the Shrewsthrow-Scarlett Family, written by a rather hapless honeymooning couple. Popular suspicion was that they had a rather lax relationship with the truth, which was fine. Some shops didn't even put it in the non-fiction section.
Herrick believed every damn word. And more. She'd spent twelve, fifteen-odd years there, not... three or four or five. She'd dropped off the map and into a different world entirely and she'd been through many different therapists trying to unpack it all.
West Hook had taken a gamble on her, and she'd repaid them with, well, steadiness, intimidating a fairly terrible squad into survival. And when there'd been talk about reviving a serious, competitive U21 side, well, Herrick slammed her foot in the door. She's the best damn young coach around! And she's got the experience. She managed for a bit in Bonesea, too. Just that the 'bit' was like eight years. Or so.
She was hazy around how much time it had been. Just... more.
She shouted louder than anyone else for a job nobody really wanted that wasn't damaged goods. Youth football wasn't particularly highly regarded in Nephara, but how much success had the senior side had since dropping out of the DBC? Fuck-all, that was what.
She didn't tolerate failure from her charges, young though they were. She drilled them hard. She kept score, relentlessly, in every fashion. Reminded them their careers were on the line. Called Romola Carolan a short bitch when she dropped a cross. In fairness, Carolan was a short bitch, and would always be a short bitch. That was why she would probably watch the tournament from the bench.
They'd roamed the country, beating up various' club's youth sides, and a few lower-league outfits to toughen up. No kid grew up soft in Nephara, sure, but a lot could use a blow or three to their pride. Having some bricklayer from Stahlburg get away with blatantly fouling you clambering over you to head home a late winner would do that. Complacency wasn't gonna do her lot in.
Complacency wasn't going to be an issue with the first match, though. Cosumar had a thriving tradition of youth football, along with just being a giant of the world game more generally. Cosumarite silk against Nepharim steel... there'd be no issue getting her charges perked up for that.
Two banks of four. Muscular defenders. Quick wingers with chalk on their boots whipping in high crosses to big strikers. Some might say that the whole point of youth football is to develop a squad, and Herrick didn't disagree - just, developing a squad's desire to win at all costs by thumping the daylights out of their opposition was a perfectly legitimate form of development in itself. And maybe, she thought privately, one that'd do the Cormorants a damn sight of good down the line...
