MOSS SIDE BARROW BOY PART SEVEN

After a 4-0 win over Accrington "Who are they?" Stanley that proved to be inconclusive, like beating on a punching bag, we were straight into the regular season, and a tricky away trip to Crystal Palace. This was one of my old managerial grounds, and I could tell the supporters still loved me by the way they threw affectionate missiles at our team coach, and rapturously sang 'Tel the T**t', which happened to be an old nickname from my playing days at QPR.

The formation I settled on was a 3-1-3-1-2, which was loaded in favour of attack. This seemed unfair on the line, but I had few doubts about the players chosen to defend our cause. With Daniel Andersson in goal, the back three was Pearce, Dunne and Howey. Alf Inge Haaland manned the defensive midfield position, behind a central three of Bergstrom, Benarbia and Selakovic. Despite his whining about being too good for the team, Eyal Berkovic was still first choice to occupy the attacking midfield slot. At any rate he had a mandate to prove his status from here. I viewed the strikeforce of Paulo Wanchope and Andreas Andersson as the strength of the side, particularly as To Madeira, Goater and Huckerby backed them up.

From the off, we attacked the Eagles gamely, and it didn't take us long to get the measure of them. Wanchope got off the mark in the 26th minute, after a spell of pressure, and looked to have already gelled with his Swedish strike partner. 22,276 Londoners fell jaw-achingly silent, but the moment was brief. Julian Gray linked up well with Scottish midfielder David Hopkins, strolled into the box past a flailing Dunne and slotted the ball home. I was livid. We had held onto our lead for three minutes, and had it all to do again. From the left, Bergstrom sharked in with a terrific shot just before half-time to give us another lead, but Gray took even less time to make it 2-2 at the break. I gave the cleaner some work to do in our dressing room as I tore strip after strip from the boys, and told them what I expected in the second 45 with some diagrams drawn from tea dribbling down the wall. They responded. With my pride on the line, they took the game by the scruff and never let go. Our Algerian midfielder, Benarbia and Andersson got onto the scoresheet to underline our dominance. I was still worried about those two goals conceded though. They had come cheaply, and I'd been forced to take off Dunne for Simon Colosimo as the Irish youngster was clearly off the pace.

All the same, 4-2 scorelines rarely upset neither the fans nor the Board, who were both delighted. There was further good news for me before the home opener against Portsmouth, as Ibrahim Said's application for a work permit was accepted. He wasn't able to participate in this match due to international commitments, and I was further resigned to playing the existing defence when the Home Office informed me that Gonzalo Sorondo had no chance of being employed in the UK.

There was one change to the line-up, with Tonton Zola Moukoko starting in place of Berkovic. I was getting really wound up with my Israeli international's mithering (as they say here in Manchester), and thought a day on the bench would do him good. It paid off for the team also. We experienced early jitters against Pompey (another team I was involved in, by the way) when Peter Crouch quickly equalised from Andersson's opener, but wave after wave of blue attacks hit them afterwards as though the Dorset town itself was being flooded by a City tsunami. The Swedish forward ended the game with his hat trick, but it was more notable for Moukoko's contribution. A scintillating debut from the young fella, who made one goal and scored two himself. I looked over to where Berkovic was sitting gloatingly, but his seat was empty.

It took him until Monday - the day before our League Cup tie with Notts County - to knock on my door.

"Take a seat, Eyal," I said chummily.

"Boss, Berkovic isn't happy," he said, slumping into his chair. "He wants to know why he has been dropped from the first eleven. Surely Berkovic should be the jewel in the Manchester City crown."

"And you are son," I lied, "but I thought you looked tired after Palace, and besides I wanted to see how Tonton shaped up."

"He is not half the player Berkovic is."

"He got a double, that's pretty good."

"He has no left foot. He is too young." The player reeled off a list of complaints, some fair enough, most groundless, until I could take no more. It was time to get tough. Underneath my desk was a button that, when pressed, triggered off a summoning bell in Vinny Jones's brain. This was invaluable to me in times of stress, but you wouldn't believe the number of dog biscuits I had to feed him before he slept long enough for the operation to take place.

"Eyal, I'm going to have to love you and leave you for a sec; something's come up. But the new club therapist can help you."

"Anything wrong, Boss?" Vinny said, putting his head around the door.

"Just look after Mr Berkovic for a minute, will you?" I asked. "Be a shoulder for him, that kind of thing."

"Sure thing, Chief," he said, slowly, and I closed the door on them. Moments later, I returned, and found Berkovic exactly where I'd left him, only quieter, and a little whiter than before. Vinny was staring at him, his face an unreadable mask of caged malevolence.

"Sorted out?" I said, without a care in the world.

"Yes Boss, I'll see you in training," Berkovic stammered, and got the hell out of there.

"Clean up that damp patch, will you Vinny?" I said. It was hard to imagine anything going wrong here ever, which as anyone knows, is about as stupid a thing to say as it can possibly get.

Click here for Part Eight.