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"I love you too, Coach!" he said, proving what a wanker he was.

"Get it together! Focus!" The old man didn't let them rest on their laurels. "Be careful with the defence! Make them shit themselves and then squeeze the faggots!"

And the blokes did it! We did it in extra time, so the referee and his linesmen would be happy as they didn't have to watch over a penalty shootout. They carried it off so well that it was one for the road!

First, our left winger, Varga, made such a cross that he could at least now be sent to the Hungarian national team. Parker pushed past their defender and kicked the ball to Kenneth, who ran up, and kicked the ball so hard that it almost tore through the net of the goal. Then when the entire United team moved forward, our team ran away in a three-in-two counterattack. After that it was just a matter of technique. Fabrice, Adam Varga and Parker played the game perfectly, and my team-mates just rolled the ball into an empty net.

Four-two. Turn out the lights, game over. Now it would be possible to get plastered on joy alone. I even wished I hadn't been driving, but I didn't want to leave my car in Sheffield.

How the boys got home, I'm afraid to imagine that. Our next game was on Sunday, so Harris let the blokes celebrate. Anyway, Johnny Martin told me later that he didn't remember much, and to get a machine like Johnny plastered, you'd have to try hard.

After the match, Fabrice appeared in all of the newspapers. The blokes from an online-publication did an interview with him in which he, without much hesitation, compared himself to Choupo-Moting. However in general, it all turned out quite well. For only two shitty matches, the cost of my kid on a well-known German portal jumped up one and a half times.

On Saturday, at the pre-match press-conference, it was only the lazy who didn't ask about my Cameroonian. "Where did you get him?" Bitches, don't they know how to use the Internet? And, "Are you sure he's nineteen?" Fucking racists, and, "Have you thought about moving him to a position with the attackers?" What fools they are.

Old Harris, of course, was as impenetrable as a fifth-grader in class, and I think that in his heart he was laughing at everyone. I must say that with journalists it is always better to behave as you would with small children. Suddenly they could all be offended again and start writing all sorts of crap. Although exhausting, this game of cat-and mouse, of course, is also great. So Harris probably got tired at the end and when some creep from a local paper asked him about rumours surrounding his resignation, he couldn't stand it any longer.

"I'm not holding on to my seat! If the management makes such a decision, I will pack my bags and then worry about the club as a fan."

That's exactly what he shouldn't have said. However it was clear that the fans liked that. Harris is his own man, even though he didn't play for us, and he comes from-somewhere up north, but to say what he said is to pit yourself against the Big Boss. To say it's up to him, and that you’re deeply committed to the club. Well, it was a setup of course. Something like that is not forgiven.

It then started on all the social networks. "They're pushing out our coach!" "The money bags have completely lost their minds!" "To the club's management, this is just business!" "Honour the colours" and all kinds of stuff like that. In the evening, as Johnny later told me, old Harris was called "into the pit."

They probably did a good job of dressing him down because in the morning at the base he was like a wet towel and the overall mood of Rovers, which had been fiery, flew all to hell. In the pre-match warm-up, the blokes were running around like sleepy fish, looking at each other in disbelief and glancing at old Harris, who kept his mouth shut.

Our captain finally couldn't stand it any longer.

"Coach, I'm sorry to bother you but-we need to wind up the blokes."

"So wind them up!" Harris exploded. "You fucking idiot! Are you trying to teach me now? Come on, move your arses! All of you! What the fuck are you doing? Do I have to go round and round in circles for you?!"

That was better and it worked. The blokes started running around and I could even see smiles appearing on their mugs.

"Roberts! Why the hell are you grinning? That's what I got from Harris. "Where is your place?! On a bench or something?! Who the hell are you here?! A Scout?! So fuck off and watch these fuckers from Blackburn! What the hell are you doing here?"

Johnny patted me on the shoulder. Grinning from ear to ear, rubbing his hands together.

"I thought it was all over." Martin leaned in close to my ear, and a wave of garlic and some other familiar smell washed over me.

"Are you drinking something?" I asked in a whisper.

"How’s that?!" He laughed.

Contrary to all forecasts we rolled out strong against the Rovers. Three-one. Twice it was Parker, once with a penalty for playing using his hand, and then Johnny Kenneth, with a long shot from-behind the penalty area. And then even Sigurdsson's own goal in the end did not spoil the mood of anyone but the Icelander himself. They laughed at him and teased him in the locker room afterwards, and that was it.

Our fans were so happy! Three wins in a row, which by the way, this season had not happened even once, and they just went mad. They were already not quite normal if they supported a club like ours. The only time I've ever seen people who were more unhappy was when I was watching hockey in Buffalo one winter. It was cold and windy, and there's just nothing in that city, no normal entertainment, no booze, nothing. Then they huddle in their ice palace and yell: "Let's go, Buffalo!" And so on for three periods in a row, although after the first they were already in the hole nil-six. Probably, in comparison with them, ours are still a little less unlucky. At least you can pop someone in the mug out of grief. And you don't even need to go far for that, there are Chelsea or Yids right next to you.

So, from such happiness, our blokes just went insane. The Fans arrived at the base on Tuesday. They knew that Monday was a day off, and no one would be at the base. Songs were shouted out, flares were lit. They acted like the Tiffozi, only they were dressed more decently.

On Wednesday, some blokes met little Fleming in one of the establishments and they didn't let him go until they'd made sure he drunk himself senseless. What discipline? Fleming was barely alive and could barely move his legs in training for two days. I won't even say anything about the social networks. All over the net they were still going nuts about Harris and the scoundrels in the club's management. Generally speaking, this entire orgy of happiness should have ended badly, and thus it so happened.

Johnny picked me up on Friday.

"Come on, Alex, let's sit down."

"Johnny, thank you, but I don't have time. I have to go to Exeter."

"Bloody hell, Alex. What haven’t you seen there? There are also only black ones. And ones that compared to your Cameroonian, are like way before Premier-League."

"You're a racist, Martin. You know, money doesn't know colour."

"Are you taking the car or the train?"

"I’m going by train."

"Then let me give you a ride. We need to talk."

He was driving badly. He twitched, broke sharply, and in general was somewhat nervous. I was silent. There's nothing I could do to help him. Let him speak for himself.

"That’s it."

"What’s it?"

"It's over. Harris is being removed."

"Oh, come on? How do you know that? Did you talk to the Big Boss?"

"Yes. I honestly explained to him that I didn't want to be a rat and couldn't work with the blokes without the old man. That today there was nothing better than Harris for the team. I told him that we have gained momentum and do not need to break anything."