Rebuilding Rovers

Chapter Three: Chaosball Crashes and Burns

By the time the weekend rolled around, I realized something crucial: Chaosball was a terrible idea.

We didn’t just lose the game; we lost spectacularly. A 6–0 thrashing at the hands of a mid-table team that hadn’t won an away game all season. Fans left the stadium in droves by halftime, chanting phrases I wouldn’t dare repeat in polite company. Social media was a wasteland of memes and vitriol.

“Chaosball?” one tweet read. “More like Clownball.”

The assistant manager, a middle-aged man named Ted with a permanent scowl and an inability to make eye contact, tried to explain the c*****e in the post-match debrief.

“The players weren’t ready for the fluidity of Chaosball,” he said, scratching his head. “They need time to adapt to such a revolutionary approach.”

“Fluidity?” I echoed, my voice dripping with disbelief. “They were passing the ball to the other team, Ted. One of our midfielders tripped over his own shoelaces. The goalkeeper was caught scrolling through i********: during the second half!”

“Well, in fairness, he didn’t have much to do,” Ted replied with a shrug.

“Because the other team was scoring at will!”

Ted gave me a blank stare, as if I were the unreasonable one. That was the moment I knew what had to be done.

“Listen, Ted,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve been thinking about the future of Brentwick Rovers, and—”

“You’re giving me a raise?” he interrupted, his eyes lighting up.

“Not exactly,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Look, the results speak for themselves. You’ve been in charge for over a year, and the team’s performance has gone from bad to… well, whatever this is. We need a change.”

Ted crossed his arms, his scowl deepening. “You’re firing me? After all I’ve done for this club?”

“All you’ve done?” I snapped. “Ted, under your management, we’ve achieved the worst season in Brentwick Rovers’ history. We’ve got the record for the fewest goals scored, the most goals conceded, and—” I flipped through a report on my desk. “Oh, look at this: the lowest possession percentage in the league. And we’ve hit an all-time high for fan complaints filed per match.”

Ted puffed out his chest. “Those are just statistics. You can’t measure the intangibles I bring to this team.”

“You’re right. I can’t measure them because they don’t exist!”

“Name one thing I’ve done wrong,” he challenged, folding his arms like he’d just checkmated me.

I blinked at him, incredulous. “Okay, let’s start with this week’s training session, where you let the players have a darts tournament instead of practicing set pieces.”

“Team bonding!” Ted countered.

“And what about the time you subbed off our only striker in the 30th minute because he didn’t ‘look motivated’?”

“He wasn’t pressing properly,” Ted mumbled.

“Or the time you told the players to ‘figure it out’ instead of giving a halftime team talk?”

“Self-reliance builds character!”

I slammed my hand on the desk. “Ted, you’re fired.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but I raised a hand to stop him. “No arguments. I’ll make sure you get a severance package, but you need to pack your things and leave. Effective immediately.”

Ted glared at me for a moment, then stood up and jabbed a finger in my direction. “You’ll regret this, Lucas. You’ll regret this big time. Brentwick Rovers will never recover without me.”

“I think we’ll manage,” I said dryly.

As Ted stormed out of the office, Jenna poked her head in. “Please tell me you just fired him.”

“Guilty as charged,” I replied, sinking into my chair.

“Good,” she said. “Because the fans were about to start crowdfunding to pay for his severance themselves.”

“Well, the hard part’s over,” I said.

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You think that was the hard part? The hard part is finding someone dumb enough to take this job.”

She had a point. Brentwick Rovers wasn’t exactly a dream destination for ambitious managers. We were broke, we had a squad full of underperforming players, and the fans were ready to riot at the slightest provocation. It wasn’t just a poisoned chalice—it was a flaming dumpster filled with snakes.

“Any ideas?” I asked, trying to sound optimistic.

Jenna pulled out her phone and started scrolling. “I’ll put out feelers, but our options aren’t great. We can either hire some washed-up has-been desperate for a paycheck or gamble on a total unknown.”

“Or,” I said, leaning forward, “we find someone with a proven track record and convince them to take a chance on us.”

She stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “And how exactly do you plan to do that? Promise them Chaosball 2.0?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No more Chaosball. We need someone who knows how to stabilize a team. Someone experienced, disciplined, and willing to roll up their sleeves. Think about it: a manager who turns this club around will become a legend.”

“That’s a nice speech,” Jenna said, smirking. “But managers aren’t exactly lining up to work for you. Not after today’s headlines.”

I grabbed a notepad and started jotting down ideas. “There’s gotta be someone out there. An old-school coach looking for one last challenge. A promising assistant ready to take the reins. Maybe even an out-of-work genius who’s been overlooked.”

Jenna sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” I said.

“Well,” she said, standing up, “good luck. You’re going to need it.”

As she walked out, I stared at the blank page in front of me. The hunt for Brentwick Rovers’ next manager was officially on, and I had no idea where to start.

But if there was one thing I’d learned in my short time as Lucas Ford, it was this: failure wasn’t an option. If I was going to turn this club around, it all started with finding the right person to lead the charge.

And if I couldn’t find the perfect manager, well… maybe I’d just have to become one myself.