How It all Began



	It was a glorious Sunday afternoon.  The kind of day Romantic
poets would have wasted writing about Xanadu, lambs, or a
pasture.  Today was not a day to squander getting high on
laudanum, but a day for 22 men to fight a pitched battle.  As
the sun rose it banished all clouds so that they did not
obstruct its view of the holy emerald battlefield.  The wind was
respectfully absent so as not to give anyone cause for excuse. 
It was truly a perfect day, and a tremendous shame the gods did
not check their fixture list.  This wonderful alignment of the
stars was counterbalanced by the presence of your team.

	"5 nil.  5 freaking nil!," your voice rang out through the
crowded and solemn pub.  You and some friends were participating
in an all too frequent ritual: complaining about the day's loss
over far too many beer.

	"A monkey could run the team better than Tomson," was your
assessment of the manager's skills.

	"True, but your mother already has a job."

	"Shut up.  Does anyone believe they had Miller playing right
back? The only right back Miller is familiar is right back on
the bench.  Oh, and Pollock up front.  What's that?  Pollock
couldn't score if you left him on the pitch by himself at the
half.  But the absolute worst was Byrne between the pipes.  I
gather he was so despondent about today's loss that he threw
himself in front of a bus only to have it roll between his legs.
 What the hell is the coaching staff thinking?"
      
	This question was being asked by all the club's fans, but, more
importantly, that very question was being asked by the club's
president.  To say the once proud franchise had fallen on hard
times would be like saying Hugh Grant was mildly embarrassed, or
Lennox Lewis is really British.  The team was being relegated
for the third consecutive season.  A combination of questionable
line-ups, financial disasters, and utterly bizarre off the field
incidents involving players, as well as management, had
decimated the club.

	In years past this would have only meant being the laughing
stock of your country, but 1996 marked the beginning of the
European Football League, and now you would be the laughing
stock of Europe.  The goal of the league is to crown a true
European champion.  All of Europe's greatest sides joined in
hopes of winning one of the prestigious cups or league
championship.  But because of your team's performance during the
past several years, it had the longest road to travel; last
place in the last division.
      
	"You know what?  I just might quit working for these sods."

	"Don't be rash.  You're an important part of the team.  Who
else could line the field and put up the nets?  Why just
imagine, in a couple of years they might even let you mow the
pitch."

	"Give it a rest, eh.  It's a bloody embarrassment working for
them."

	"Relax.  There's always next season.  I hear the fourth
division of the European Football League offers some quality
football."

	"Yes, and Windows 95 was released on schedule and bug free."
      
	Near evening's end, alcohol had a stranglehold on your thoughts
and emotions.  To the utter amazement of your friends, you
grabbed your drink, and proceeded to climb on top of your table.
With glass raised you made the following announcement: "It's a
travesty what has happened to our once proud side, and I for one
will no longer remain silent.  I'm going be the first one in
Tomson's office tomorrow morning, and I'm going to tell him what
I think of how he manages the club."

	It is ironic that you, just like your team, would be second on
the day.

	Get the registered version of Football Fanatic and find out how
the story ends.  Does Tomson shoot you for your constructive criticism?
Do you even make it to Tomson's office the next day?  Does the story end
with, "Happily ever after"?  Perhaps you give up following football and
become a manager for a professional wrestler?  End the suspense and
register!