Rebuilding Rovers

Chapter Two: The Art of Talking Absolute Nonsense

The room was stifling, the kind of heat that comes not from temperature but from pressure. Cameras clicked incessantly, reporters muttered among themselves, and the faint smell of stale coffee filled the air.

I sat at the front of the press conference table, a Brentwick Rovers banner draped behind me, flanked by Jenna on my right and a bewildered assistant manager on my left. The room’s hostility was palpable.

“Mr. Ford,” one reporter called out, his voice sharp, “three straight losses, dwindling attendance, and fans openly protesting outside the stadium. Do you still believe you’re fit to run this club?”

I took a deep breath, leaning toward the microphone. “Great question, Jeff. Can I call you Jeff?”

“My name is Simon.”

“Right, Simon. Look, it’s no secret that things haven’t been going great for Brentwick Rovers lately,” I said, spreading my hands in what I hoped looked like a gesture of transparency. “But let’s not dwell on the past. Football is like… baking. Sometimes the cake doesn’t rise, but you don’t blame the oven; you adjust the recipe.”

A wave of confusion swept through the room. Jenna shot me a look that could’ve melted steel.

“Follow-up question,” another reporter interjected. “Fans have criticized the team’s lack of identity on the pitch. What’s your vision for Brentwick Rovers moving forward?”

I nodded thoughtfully, buying time to scramble for an answer. “Vision? Oh, I have a vision, absolutely. Brentwick Rovers is more than just a club. It’s a concept, a feeling, a way of life. It’s about embracing the unpredictability of the beautiful game. Some teams play tiki-taka, some park the bus—us? We’re trailblazers. We’re creating a new style of play.”

“And what would you call this new style?”

“Chaosball,” I said without hesitation.

The room erupted into murmurs. “Chaosball?” someone repeated.

“Chaosball,” I confirmed. “It’s about breaking the mold. Forget structure, forget predictability. It’s about keeping everyone—opponents, fans, even the players—guessing. Brentwick Rovers will be the team that cannot be analyzed, because we are beyond analysis.”

The assistant manager’s face was a mask of horror, but I wasn’t done.

“Football isn’t just about scoring goals,” I continued. “It’s about the journey, the drama, the theater. And Brentwick Rovers will deliver more drama than Shakespeare ever could.”

Jenna’s hand gripped my arm like a vice, her nails digging into my skin. “Stick to the script,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

I ignored her as another reporter stood up. “That’s all very… interesting, Mr. Ford, but the club’s financial situation is dire. Sponsors are pulling out, and it’s rumored you’re unable to pay the players’ wages. How do you plan to fix this?”

Finally, something I understood. I straightened up, my confidence skyrocketing. “Ah, finances. Now that’s my bread and butter. Let me tell you, Brentwick Rovers is about to revolutionize the business of football.”

“How?”

“Diversification,” I said, leaning in dramatically. “We’re not just a football club. We’re a brand. Picture this: Brentwick Rovers cafes in every major city. Jerseys that double as tech wear—charge your phone and look stylish. Exclusive Rovers NFTs to engage the digital market. And, of course, a streaming platform: RoversVision.”

The murmurs grew louder. Even the reporters who’d been sharpening their knives seemed genuinely intrigued.

“But that’s not all,” I added, raising a finger like a professor about to deliver the punchline of a lecture. “We’ll leverage the local community. Invest in small businesses around Brentwick. Host events, festivals, and concerts at the stadium. The Rovers’ pitch won’t just be a football field; it’ll be a cultural epicenter. By broadening our revenue streams, we’ll not only survive—we’ll thrive.”

A reporter in the back raised his hand. “And what about the fans? How do you plan to bring them back?”

I grinned. “Simple: transparency and engagement. Weekly Q&A sessions. Real-time updates on the club’s decisions. And most importantly, we’re going to listen to the fans’ voices. Brentwick Rovers is their club, and I’m just the steward.”

It was a blatant lie, but it sounded good.

By the time the press conference ended, the room was buzzing. Jenna practically dragged me out of the room, her nails biting into my arm again.

“What the hell was that?” she snapped the moment we were out of earshot. “Chaosball? RoversVision? NFTs?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I shot back. “Did you see their faces? They were eating it up.”

“They were confused!” she snapped. “That wasn’t a strategy; it was a circus act!”

I shrugged. “Football is theater, Jenna. You said so yourself.”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, stalking off.

I leaned back against the wall, exhaling for the first time since I’d walked into that room. I had no idea how I was going to make good on any of the nonsense I’d just spouted, but for now, I’d bought myself some time.

One thing was clear: Lucas Ford’s reputation was in the gutter, but if I was going to survive in this new life, I’d have to fake it until I made it.

And who knew? Maybe Chaosball wasn’t such a bad idea after all.