Part 112: Fan Trust Interlude: The Ballad of Rocky Bastable, by SnafuAl.

A familiar sight, the boss man at his desk,
The God-King of Wrexham now facing a test;
A knocking sounds out, another young protégé
No doubt here to complain of how little they play
Despite knowing full well they are not first-team-ready...
Brown's knuckles turn white, but he must remain steady.
After all, this nonsense has happened before
And, cursing his choice to keep an open door,
“Come in” he says, and looks up to see
Which ungrateful prick is the new complainee;
The door creaks slowly open, one young man enters in,
The boss relaxes, his grimace morphs to a good-natured grin,
He kicks back and rests his feet up on the table:
“What can I do for you
Rocky Bastable?”

“This doesn't have to go outside of this office”,
The lad starts his practiced speech, seeming uncertain of this,
“But I've done all I can in this corner of Wales,
So I want to be sold in the January Sales.”
His nerve seems to crack, the words come out in a tumble,
The boss's grin falters at this half-expected grumble.
Regaining composure, he sits up and reassures:
“Believe me, my boy, my ambitions match yours,
I want you to face the very best in the game
To bask in the glory, crowds chanting your name,
To collect all of the silverware, every last bit,
I just want to see you do it in that red Dragons kit.
To help you to achieve I'll do all that I'm able,
But you're staying at Wrexham,
Rocky Bastable.”

The young man is shocked at the total denial,
But he stops, breathes in deeply, and holds back the bile.
“I appreciate what you're saying, boss, don't get me wrong,
But to put it quite plainly, I can't wait that long.
And everyone knows that only this winter,
You've turned away Napoli, and twice denied Inter!
And as if this news wasn't already momentous,
There's talk that I've caught the eyes of Juventus.
I get that you want me here, but I want to go far,
And I'd be much better suited to playing in Serie A.
Why are you being such a damned cunt about this?”
The boss interrupted, slammed his desk with his fist,
Stood up from his seat, and with a voice calm and stable,
Said “Now sit the fuck down.”
To Rocky Bastable.

“I've heard what you've said,” he began, voice laden with doom,
“Something's made you unhappy, or so I assume.
But I thought I made it clear that if that were the case,
You should have the fucking balls to say as much to my face.
So what is it, boy, what has your head craning
To make eyes at those bastards in the Mediterranean?
Is the training too hard? Or is it my failure
To give you free reign to fuck off to play for Australia?
Is that it, you bastard? Do you think I'm short-sighted
For keeping you here to play Man-fucking-United
While your country fucks about in some no-name competition?
You dare come in here and lecture me about ambition?
I've seen future stars before, boy, and you deserve that label
But there's some shit that needs set straight here,
Rocky Bastable.”

“While it's true, you have the talents to one day be a star,
Need I remind you I signed you from a club in fucking Qatar?
I plucked you from the desert, brought you here to grow and feed
In the fertile soccer soil of the damn Premier League
And while Wrexham might not be home to a megabastard yet,
Don't you fucking dare tell me you have any regrets.
I kept playing you no matter what, through thick and through thin,
I cheered you from the sidelines when you were banging them in.
If I had had less faith in you, in the weeks you had not scored,
Do you think that on your own you'd have that Golden Boot award?
Or been named in the whole league's Team of the fucking Year?
Because from what you've said today, I must make this perfectly clear:
While without me you may have been perfectly able,
I fucking made you,
Rocky Bastable.”

The young Aussie sat stunned, unsure what he should do
He had never before known the coach to turn the air so blue.
He rose slowly to his feet, started to move towards the exit,
Mumbled somewhat sullenly about feeling disrespected.
And left the boss alone again, the silence laying thick,
Broken only softly by the wall-clock's gentle tick.
The boss man sighed, sat at his desk and poured
A glass of the fine scotch whisky he'd been gifted by the board
He tried so hard to bring these talents in and make them feel at home
It hurt to see them treat Wrexham as merely a stepping stone
Toward certain English clubs, or even those on foreign shores,
But his thoughts were soon cut short by another rapping at his door.
He forced himself to smile, and looking up asked gaily,
“So what can I do for you today,
Justin bloody Bailey?”



And this is why reading LPs whilst bored at work is a bad idea.