“Ah.” John Omally now tapped at his nose. “Well, here’s the thing. The Consortium have granted Neville the opportunity to appoint a new manager for the club.”
“Ah, I see.” Professor Slocombe now tapped at his nose.
“There’s an awful lot of nose-tapping going on,” said Jim. “Is it a Masonic thing?”
“I understand you,” said the professor to John. “You are thinking that I might use my connections to secure a new manager for the club, one who might take them on to glory.”
Omally nodded enthusiastically.
Professor Slocombe tugged open a desk drawer. “I’ll have a look in my address book,” said he. “I think I have Sven Goran Erickson’s telephone number.”
“You do?” said John.
Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow and slammed his desk drawer shut. “No,” said he, “of course I don’t.”
“Oh,” said John.
“Should I laugh at that?” asked Jim. “It was quite funny.”
“Do so and I strike you,” said Omally.
“Sorry,” said the professor.
John shrugged. “It isn’t what I was going to ask you anyway. What I was going to ask you was this. It is possible for a team with little talent to beat a team with a lot of talent if the team with the little talent is led by a manager skilled in the art of tactics. Tactics win games. Life is all about tactics, in my humble opinion.”
“Your life certainly is,” said Jim. “Especially when these tactics are being employed to win the affections of married women.”
“Sssh,” said John. “Such indiscreet remarks are not worthy of you. What I’m asking you, Professor, is could you formulate a set of tactics whereby Brentford might once, for this season alone, actually win?”
Professor Slocombe stroked his chin. “Hm,” went he. “An interesting challenge. And one, I have to say, not without a certain charm. I agree with you that although improbable, it is certainly possible for Brentford to win through. But my days are full; I would not have the time in them to manage a football team.”
“I’m not suggesting that you manage the team,” said John.
“I felt that you were about to.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I was. Certainly your presence alone on the pitch would inspire the team. But surely you, a man of such erudite learning and with such a love for the borough—”
“John,” said the professor, “with the possible exception of certain members of the town council, you would be hard-pressed to find a Brentonian who does not love the borough.”
“Touché,” said John. “But if you could formulate the tactics, it wouldn’t really matter who the manager was. His job would simply be to pass on these tactics to the team.”
“In principle,” said the professor, “but you mentioned the word ‘inspire’. A football manager must be able to inspire. He must have charisma.”
Omally threw up his hands. “It was worth a try,” said he. “The salary Brentford United can afford to pay a manager is now but a pittance. No professional manager would ever take over the position anyway. The team is doomed, the ground is doomed.” Omally rose to take his leave. “I’m sorry,” said he, “but Jim was right, I have wasted your time.”
Professor Slocombe nodded his head from side to side. “Not so fast, John,” he said. “And allow it to be said that I admire your tactics here. You know full well that if I could do anything to save the club, I would. And I agree with you that it is possible. And I would certainly be prepared to put my mind to the matter of tactics. In fact, to employ, shall we say, certain methods of my own to aid the team’s advancement—”
Jim looked at John.
And John looked at Jim.
Then both of them looked back towards the professor.
“Tactics,” said Professor Slocombe. “Tactics, certain other methods and a charismatic manager.” His head bobbed once more from side to side. “That would be the winning formula.”
“It would,” Omally agreed.
Professor Slocombe gazed thoughtfully upon his uninvited guests. “It is always a pleasure to engage the two of you in conversation,” he said. “The two of you are, how shall I put this, alive. Yes, that’s the word. You live. On your wits the two of you live and not entirely to the dictates of the establishment. But you are most certainly alive.” The professor noted well the twin expressions of bewilderment that had now appeared upon the faces of his guests.
“I think,” he continued, “that together we might well succeed with what many would consider to be an impossible quest. To whit, to take Brentford to the very top this season, and to win the FA Cup.”
“Right,” said John. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Me, too,” said Jim, “but my glass is now empty.”
“Mine, too,” said John, “but I’ll drink to it in principle.”
“Champagne,” said Professor Slocombe, ringing his little brass bell once more. “This calls for champagne.”
“It does?” said Jim.
“If the professor says it does, it does,” said John, laying aside his depleted sherry glass and rubbing his hands together. “It does.”
“We must have a toast,” said Professor Slocombe, “in champagne, of course, to the future success of Brentford United. And to its new manager.”
“You know the man?” John asked.
“The man sits here before you,” said Professor Slocombe.
“Then you are going to take the job?”
“Not me,” said the professor, “but Jim Pooley.”
7
Jim Pooley was returned to consciousness through the medium of Professor Slocombe’s soda siphon, applied towards his laughing gear through the medium of John Omally’s hand control.
“Oh,” went Jim. And, “Get off there,” and, “Oh no,” and, “Oh no,” again.
“Oh yes,” said the professor, nodding enthusiastically.
“Oh no,” said Jim once more, spitting soda as he did so.
“You are indeed the man for the job.” Professor Slocombe nodded decisively.
“I’m not,” flustered Jim. “Believe me, I’m not.”
“Oh yes you are.”
“Oh no I’m not.”
“Are,” said the professor.
“Not,” said Jim. “Not times squared, to infinity.”
“I’ll take the job,” said John, “if you’re offering it.”
“I’m not offering it,” said the professor, “Neville is.”
“He won’t offer it to Jim.”
“No,” said Jim, “he won’t.”
“I’m sure he will if I put in a word for you.”
“Hm,” went Jim, wiping soda from his face. “This is indeed true. But I don’t want the job, Professor. I know nothing about football.”
“So much the better still, the team will not know you.”
“But many of the borough will. I’m not unknown in this area.”
“Then so much the better even stiller. You will be applauded as a local hero, a fearless fellow taking on what most would consider an impossible, indeed, a preposterous task.”
“I number myself amongst these considerers,” said Jim.
“Champagne?” Omally asked. “Gammon brought in a bottle.”
“I can’t do this.” Jim was on his feet now and preparing for the taking of his leave.
“You can.” Professor Slocombe poured champagne. “And you will. I will guide your every step. I will, how shall I put it, invest you with a certain charisma. Under my guidance you will lead the team to victory.”
“Truly?” Jim asked, with more doubt in his voice than there are zeros in a googol, or coughs to get it right if you’re unsure.