AT SOME STAGE, DICK lost it. His grip, that is. He was still the boss, but not that much of a general any more. He couldn’t get the team to play the way he wanted any longer. It was as if we were over the hill. Even Denisov, the future captain of the Russian team, wasn’t as good as in our super season.
This was partly due to the fact that our big star Arshavin had left. After nine years with Zenit he finally chose Arsenal. The Gunners paid more than 20 million euros for him. At an earlier stage, Barcelona found that sum too high. I was happy for my teammate, but he would have done better in Spain, in my opinion.
So there we were, without Andrey. Sure, there were still enough other good players, but none of them was as brilliant as him. He was a weirdo, but a genius, a magician. I wasn’t surprised when, a few weeks after his departure, he scored four times against Liverpool. At Anfield!
Anyway, this left us without a real leader on the pitch. As a team we were a lot less without him. Just look at the table: halfway through 2009 we were seventh, miles behind later champions Rubin Kazan. A disgrace for a club like Zenit.
Not that I needed to mention this to Dick. He knew it. Time was running out for him. He did his best, together with Cor Pot’s successor Bert van Lingen, but the magic had disappeared. After a 0–2 defeat against Tom Tomsk, the Little General was given his marching orders. The date: 10 August 2009. Our next boss would be Anatoliy Davydov, up until then coach of Zenit’s reserves.
Our bad results weren’t the only reason for Dick’s dismissal though. The hot shots at Zenit were not amused by the fact that he had made a deal with the Belgian FA, without telling them. As from January, Dick would be – hold on, here comes a word play! – the Red Devils’ Advocaat.
Oh, and Dick had become a victim of defamation, thanks to that scumbag Radimov. I’ve no idea what he told the board behind Dick’s back, but it wasn’t a eulogy! Radimov had a few collaborators, as he wasn’t man enough to do things on his own, but they succeeded, those traitors, and Dick had to leave the club.
I was out of my mind with rage when I heard it. This was the final nail in the coffin. I got very emotional when I heard about it. At that point, I’d had it with Zenit. Completely. Okay, I could have thought, maybe a new manager will give me a chance, as with Dick at the helm I hadn’t been playing anyway. After all, hadn’t I had my best period with Rangers after Dick’s departure? On top of that, I still had a contract and the prospect of earning 1.2 million euros clear, for doing a bit of stretching on the training ground and spending 90 minutes on the bench every weekend. Easy money, eh?
Yes, easy money, but blood money at the same time. I couldn’t stand the idea of sharing a dressing room with a bunch of crooks who had stabbed Dick in the back. He was, and always will be, a kind, warm personality who deserved better than that.
Much better! Dick deserved a statue! Or a job as technical director. But for that position Zenit had contracted former Feyenoord and Barcelona player Igor Korneev. Dick couldn’t stand the guy and I understood why.
At the end of July Korneev had bought an Italian, Alessandro Rosina. The guy was a midfielder from Torino. A good player, but Dick hadn’t asked for him. Nor had Belarus-born Sergei Kornilenko been on his wish list. Dick wanted Goran Pandev from Macedonia. And Peruvian Paolo Guerrero. But he didn’t get them, and it was the start of a battle the Little General couldn’t win.
I won’t deny it: things were going downhill at Zenit. A fifth spot in 2008 and a seventh by the time Dick was kicked out in 2009. But the entire foundation the club had been rebuilt on was laid down by one man: Dick Advocaat. And all the titles – the UEFA Cup, the European Super Cup and the Russian Super Cup – had been the work of that very same little chap, one who had been proclaimed Russian Coach of the Year. And now they had kicked him out. Bloody cowards.
At least he was given a decent send-off. After a game, he was driven round the stadium in an open Bentley. Dick, being the emotional man he is, had to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Despite that memorable tribute, I wanted to force a decision – a fracture, more to the point. It wouldn’t be too difficult, as everyone knew I was back on the booze. Bert van Lingen and Dutch physiotherapist Rob Ouderland tried to help me, but I didn’t accept their support. I told them I didn’t have any problems, and even if I did, I would be man enough to deal with them. I was reacting as I had in my worst days in Scotland. And further downhill I went ...
In the eyes of Zenit, I was a member of Team Dick – a friend of the enemy. So after the departure of Dick (and Bert and Rob), I knew I was close to being kicked out as well. I didn’t have to wait long. On 23 August, just two weeks after Dick got sacked, I was forced to leave too.
It was actually a minor incident that triggered it. As I lived next door to the hotel where Zenit always stayed in the hours before a match, I regularly went home in between. I ate at the hotel, I slept at the hotel, but come time off, I walked to my house. I had always done that. I didn’t see the problem. We were free to do whatever we wanted, so why not stay at my own place for a while? And I always kept an eye on the clock, always. I respected the club rules.
Dick never made an issue out of it. So surely the new manager wouldn’t mind. Or would he?
The next morning I walked straight from my hotel room to the place where breakfast was served. I had a healthy appetite, so I was looking forward to my cheese rolls and stuff. It’s just that I never made it to the buffet.
At the bottom of the stairs stood new manager Davydov. Suddenly he started yelling at me. I had no idea why. The previous night I’d been in my room before eleven and I hadn’t even been drinking! (I never drank before a match, only before training sessions in the later stages of my alcoholism.)
I knew I had little chance of playing against Lokomotiv Moscow but I had behaved myself. I’d been a good boy, a professional. A few days earlier I’d been part of the squad that travelled to Madeira for a Europa League play-off game against Nacional. I didn’t kick a single ball, but I was still there as part of the team. So maybe there was a chance of a performance against Lok Moscow.
Well, until I reached the bottom of the stairs ... There, I was confronted with an extremely angry Davydov asking me why I hadn’t been ‘there’ the previous night and ‘where’ I had been. I thought he was taking the Mickey out of me. He knew I had been home. But he went on and on about it, so he must have been deadly serious.
That was it. I snapped. ‘Fuck you!’ Not very nice, I know, but the words just came out of my mouth. I couldn’t keep them in.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Didn’t you hear me? Fuck you! Get stuffed! Oh, and rip my contract to pieces at the same time. I’m finished with you lot! Do you understand? Finished!’
I didn’t care any more, as you may have noticed.
Davydov didn’t even look insulted. He just nodded. I think he liked my proposition.
I was free. I didn’t even have to show up for the match a few hours later.
So those sixty seconds as a substitute against Amkar Perm, in November 2008, were my last ones for Zenit Saint Petersburg. It was sad that it had to end there, on a crappy ground west of the Urals. I don’t even think it was televised. What a way to end a beautiful chapter of my life. Painful.
Later on, I heard that Davydov had only done this to show the rest of the players who was the boss. To assert his authority. Not very honest of him, but, hey, ever heard of karma? By the end of December Davydov had already been replaced! By one Luciano Spalletti, that hairless Herbert from AS Roma. Now that was a short and, in all honesty, not so successful career. Or was it, Davydov? They ended third that year, after champions Rubin Kazan. Thinking about it, it was a top result.
My explosion at the bottom of the stairs came as a relief. I didn’t regret it at all. Not even the next morning, when I realised my incredibly lucrative contract was in tatters. I was glad I felt that way, because what would have happened if I’d felt sorry about myself? Then, dear reader, I would have had a problem – a big, big problem. Can you imagine me crawling back? Offering my apologies to Davydov? No way! They would have taken the piss out of me big time.
But I didn’t want to belong to Zenit any more. It felt wonderful not to belong to anybody any more!
In the meantime I had started a relationship with a young Russian girl, Veronika. I knew her from the Arena Club. Now don’t get me wrong, she managed the VIP reservations at the venue! At first, I didn’t want to develop any feelings for her, as I was still tied to Graciela. But when it became clear that our marriage was over and my sexy lodgers had moved out, I took the risk of dating her. And guess what happened? Too easy. I fell in love with her.
The main difference between Veronika and all the other girls was that she wasn’t after my money (money that was getting relatively scarce too, because I was about to become unemployed). Veronika taught me how not to waste cash. Well, even if I had wanted to continue burning banknotes the way I was used to, I couldn’t. Because Graciela was plundering our joint bank account to the tune of hundreds of thousands of euros.
So I had to become modest. And I had decided that I didn’t want to get back into the dirty world of professional football any more. After twenty years I had had enough. No more fakery, no more lies. No more matches, hotel rooms, training grounds, team gatherings. It was time to do something completely different – although I didn’t have a clue what.
First a nice holiday, I said to myself. Relaxing near my own pool in Valencia. Emptying my head, as they say. That was more important than my future. So that’s what I told Veronika. I was scared that it would freak her out, but I was wrong. Rich footballer or not-so-rich job seeker, she didn’t give a toss. She chose me for who I was as a human being. That was a first time for me.
As I didn’t want to stay in Russia one minute longer than necessary, I terminated my apartment lease and took off. Just like that. Didn’t say goodbye to anybody. I took Veronika with me and we spent three weeks at my home in Spain. I unwound completely. I’ve hardly ever been so happy as I was then. It was much, much better than my usual holidays in the Caribbean. As a footballer, the next season is always in the back of your mind. So, even on vacation, you do a bit of exercising. Now I didn’t have to do anything at all. What a luxury!
The happy feeling lasted exactly 21 days. To be exact, until I arrived at Schiphol Airport. There, the police were waiting with a letter. A letter from Graciela. I read it and freaked out. After our divorce, it said, my ex-wife was demanding 60,000 euros from me. Per month! Alimony!
‘She’s lost it!’ I screamed. ‘We don’t even have a child together!’
No way was I going to do this. No way! She was not going to break my back! It was time to show her some of that good old Fighting Spirit!
It would be the start of a long and hostile battle.
Between Veronika and me, things went from strength to strength. I even asked her to stay with me. I knew it would be better for me, as she acted like a kind of mentor. Thanks to her I didn’t do drugs any more. Thanks to her I stopped my excessive drinking. Thanks to her I realised that there was more to life than me, myself and I.
She had tamed me! Or so it seemed.
And there was plenty of room in the Netherlands for my Russian girlfriend. I still had a house in Alkmaar, and one in the outskirts of Amsterdam, in an area called Osdorp, which we’d bought because it was convenient for the airport.
The place in Osdorp became our love shack. (Graciela was living in the house in Alkmaar, where she’d changed all the locks.) I didn’t mind. Amsterdam was fine for me. I could be completely anonymous there. No amateur psychologists bothering me with their well-intended advice. Hey, if I want to play football again, I’ll raise the topic myself, okay?
But I didn’t. I watched it on TV, but that was it. I didn’t miss playing it at all. Not even when I saw guys kicking a ball who were a lot less talented than me. Yes, I was talented – very talented! And you don’t forget how to play football, even though you don’t train on a regular basis.
I was still in good shape. Just as in my football days I completely rejected junk food like crisps, chips and burgers. No way was I going to flush twenty years of professional training down the toilet. Now that would have been a waste!
I kept in shape by walking and running. All in all I gained four kilos, which was peanuts. If I ever decided to make a comeback, I said to myself, those four kilos would disappear within hours! But, no, I wasn’t going to make a comeback. It was a bit strange when the season started though. For the first time in two decades I wasn’t sitting in a dressing room. But I got over it very quickly. I had other things on my mind.
I was busy travelling. Showing Veronika the world. We went to Monte Carlo and Italy. We even jumped on the high-speed Thalys to Paris! We had the time of our lives.
The gap between football and me became wider and wider. I didn’t even check the results any more, didn’t know where Rangers and Zenit were in their respective tables. I just wasn’t interested.
It was also because I had a new distraction. A pub of my own. No, not to drink dry, to earn money with! I was going into business! At first – er, you can imagine why – I had my doubts. A friend of mine asked me whether I’d be interested in taking over Se7en, a lounge bar in the heart of Alkmaar. Now, asking an ex-alcoholic to take over a watering hole is like asking for trouble, isn’t it? I could hear the jokes already: I would become my own best customer. But I wanted to prove my critics wrong. I saw it as an enormous challenge. I still loved to drink the occasional glass of wine at dinner, but I wouldn’t fall into that booze-soaked hell again. Veronika wouldn’t let that happen.
So I did it! Without any experience? Well, you can’t say I haven’t seen a bar from the inside, can you? I’d also demolished a thing or two in the past, as you know from this book, but for Se7en I decided to leave the breaking of the walls to some professionals. I was more the captain of the team, telling them where the counter should be, what colour the walls should be, those kind of things. And, not least, which spirits we were going to serve. That’s where my past came in handy ...
I loved Se7en. I loved it so much that after the opening in 2010 I sometimes acted as a bartender: chatting with the customers, tapping a beer, putting on some music. It was hard work, but it gave me something to do. And it kept me off the hard liquor, just as I wanted.
I felt great.
Okay, it wasn’t comparable to the stress before a Champions League match, but I did feel a certain tension. This was my place and I didn’t want to ruin my name again, like I’d done so often in the past. I had to stay focused.
But there was no need to worry; the place was a success. Even AZ players, like goalkeeper Esteban, dropped by for a drink. Hats off to them, as I hadn’t left the club in particularly good spirits ten years earlier.
Nevertheless, when I wasn’t working there myself, the place was almost empty. At least that’s what my employees told me. Maybe, I said to myself, people prefer to have a drink at the neighbours’, as soon as they see Fernando isn’t in. After all, I was a bit of an attraction. A former international football player serving drinks, they kinda liked that. I used to give autographs and pose for photos. Oh, and there was a worldwide financial crisis, let’s not forget that element!
So I didn’t think much of it. I concentrated on other things, like finding the right DJ for a theme night. Decorating the place with skulls for Halloween. I even had one that made a sound as soon as you walked past it. Hilarious. And I painted the place orange when the national team was playing. My heart still had that colour. Besides, the squad still included a lot of guys I’d played with, like Giovanni van Bronckhorst, Mark van Bommel, Wesley Sneijder, Arjen Robben, Rafael van der Vaart – all former teammates of mine! Guys who even made it to the World Cup final in South Africa! Supervised by Bert van Marwijk, a coach with a Fortuna heart and, not unimportant, father-in-law of my chum Van Bommel! Not a bunch of people you’re gonna let down.
And what a final it was. We could have beaten the mighty Spain we were so close. The moment Robben was on his way to the Spanish goalkeeper – a matter of centimetres. But we lost, 0–1, and that was that. Three lost World Cup finals, after the ones in 1974 and 1978.
I was having a chat afterwards, when I heard a noise outside.
‘Fernando, Fernando, they’re fighting!’
I said I was too busy. Besides, I’d been in too many fights before. Not this time, please. I was also feeling a bit down, because we’d just missed a unique opportunity to become the best footballing country in the world. Yes, it affected me! I’m Dutch and still a lover of football ...
‘Fernando! You have to come outside, it’s really kicking off!’
As I walked out – duty called – I could see one poor bastard being beaten to a pulp by about 100 men. He had been provoking the crowd by waving a Spanish flag, so this was what they thought he deserved. It was mayhem.
Later on, I found out there had been more behind it. It had been the culmination of a feud between some trailer trash from the industrial town of Beverwijk and a group of Turkish and Moroccan youths. The guy with the flag was now ambushed; he couldn’t go anywhere. He was about to be butchered.
I knew the boy. I was shocked. He was one of the freefighters I’d met at the gym. But one freefighter can’t beat the shit out of a group that size. His little brother, who tried to help him, got severely battered too. Nobody came out to help him. So it was up to me. I went in and pushed a few of the assailants away. And I didn’t just push: good old Fighting Spirit was using his fists too! I managed to grab the poor victim and drag him into my bar. He was barely alive.
Much later people asked me why I’d done it and hadn’t I been afraid. The answer was no, I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t have the time to be afraid. It was instinct, pure instinct. A hero? Me? Well, without my intervention, the kid would be dead. So, you decide.
I’d been in a lot of fights, but this one was the worst. A hundred against one! That’s worse than just unfair. No excuse for it. If I see something like that the streetfighter in me jumps out. I can’t stand injustice. That’s the reason why I smashed Radimov’s face at Zenit, remember?
One of the reasons why I wasn’t working at Se7en every day was the fact that I’d started to miss football. I’d called my brother Pedro. Maybe he could do something about it. And he could. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I was invited to train with EHC, my very first club, where, in the meantime, Pedro had become coach of the reserves. Back at EHC after thirty years!
It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Alkmaar – a five-hour round trip – but I still did it. I loved it. It was great to be on the grass again, albeit in Hoensbroek and not in Glasgow with 60,000 nutters around me! And I hadn’t lost any of my skills. After a few months I even felt like a footballer again!
The big difference this time was that I was very careful not to hurt anybody. After all, they were amateurs, hobbyists with a full-time job. And I was their guest.
As an extra bonus, the bond with my brother Pedro, at whose place I crashed out, was getting stronger. I realised how much I’d missed him! Thanks to me being the world’s biggest egomaniac, we had become completely alienated from each other. And Graciela didn’t like my family at all, so she couldn’t act like some kind of cement either.
The change had come on Thursday, 3 April 2008, quarter-finals of the UEFA Cup. We thrashed Bayer Leverkusen 1–4. Unfortunately I wasn’t playing that night, but it was a memorable evening for me.
Pissed off that he couldn’t get in touch with me, Pedro drove from Heerlen to Leverkusen. Not so much to watch the game, but to see his estranged brother – the brother he missed so much. I didn’t know he would be there that night. Once again I had a new phone number, and once again I hadn’t given it to him.
Normally punters can’t get close to the players before and after a European match. The UEFA officials wanted us to get into the bus without any hassle, so we were totally shielded from the crowd. Well, that works for your average spectator, but not for Pedro. I was about to enter the coach, and there he was. My kid brother.
My little sibling, who had just climbed over a fence.
Nobody stopped him; it was as if it had to be this way. I immediately hugged him and gave him my shirt, the one that was free of sweat. I was so happy to see him after all those years ... There and then I said to myself that I would never ever let him go again. Reunited – and it felt so good!
I gave him my number, and I got his. It was the start of something beautiful. No, the continuation of something beautiful! We kept our mutual promise. He often visited me in Saint Petersburg. I arranged a couple of tickets for him for the UEFA Cup Final in Manchester. We were inseparable again.
I cherish those moments, especially the memory of our trip to New York together, in 2001. I’d planned to go with Graciela, but she dropped out at the last moment. We’d probably had one of our many fights, I can’t remember. Anyway, I didn’t want this to ruin my trip, so I changed her ticket and booked one for Pedro. He absolutely loved it. I think it was his first business-class flight. To make the trip even more memorable for him, I booked us a couple of rooms in the Waldorf Astoria. You know, the one where Eddie Murphy shot Coming to America. Amazing location, close to Fifth Avenue and Central Park.
It was three days of total madness. We got pissed together every single night. Stayed in our expensive beds all day in an attempt to sober up, then drank so much we were literally bouncing off those beautiful stairs. As I was a wealthy footballer at the time, we could stuff ourselves with the most expensive champagne. We were Seriously Big Spenders. I even hired a limousine, in which we were driven through the city. The friggin’ thing was about twenty feet long!
At four in the morning we were chewing on chicken wings, somewhere in a dark cave in the heart of the Bronx. We felt unassailable. How had we ended up there? We just jumped into a car and told the couple inside that they had to take us to ‘a restaurant’. Madness, I know! So they took us to NY’s most dangerous hood ...
‘Don’t panic, guys,’ the couple told us. ‘We’re sure you won’t get shot.’
Totally irresponsible.
Now, I’m a sucker for a good piece of chicken, but preferably not under those circumstances. Pedro was shitting himself too. He wanted to get straight back to the hotel. But I had the munchies. And wasn’t food why we were here in the first place? Let’s give it a try, I suggested. And into the chicken joint we went, only to find out that ... we were the only white people there! It was like being in a crazy movie! Yup, Pedro, never a dull moment with you! And boy, those chicken legs were delicious!
At one point, it looked as if Pedro was going to play in Glasgow too. Not at Rangers, but at Partick Thistle. They thought he would make a fine right-wing defender. All he had to do was sign.
No disrespect to Partick Thistle, but I advised him not to do it. Because I knew he would get homesick. Just like when he was living in Alkmaar for a while, when he was playing for the AZ reserves. ‘You can’t just drive from Glasgow to Heerlen,’ I told him. Obvious, I know. But he wouldn’t get rich at Partick Thistle either. ‘Two thousand euros a month, at most. And you just had a little baby, bro!’
So he didn’t sign. Our Pedro is a family man. Much more than I am. He would have suffered a lot in Glasgow. I’m much more of a loner than he is. Besides, he hadn’t made it at AZ and Fortuna, so how was the kid going to survive in a match against Glasgow Rangers?
During my second stint with EHC, I kept driving down and up to Limburg. The times Pedro and I couldn’t stand each other had long gone. We were so close now, we were like, er, brothers. I even became the godfather of his baby boy Dean, whom I had hardly seen during my years abroad. I loved going to the little chap’s birthday and I saw that Pedro loved it too. My brother had become my comrade.
And, because of this new situation, I also got my mother and stepfather back. The two of them had never liked Graciela, so in previous years there hadn’t been any contact. I had chosen my wife – as you do. Now, I was delighted that Mum liked Veronika.
Yes, it felt good to be back home, after all those years. I should’ve reached out for my family a lot earlier. But I was too scared. Too scared to be rejected.
The first occasion on which I saw them all again wasn’t a happy one though. It was at my grandfather’s funeral, my mother’s old man. Pedro called me and asked me to come. Then, there was still a bit of friction, but I decided to do it anyway. I owed this to him. He had always been a great companion to me, an inspiration.
I found it a lot more significant than the cremation of my own father, Hein, four years earlier. Pedro went to the funeral, even though it was his birthday. I didn’t care. Didn’t know the bloke. Didn’t even know where he lived. Huub, my stepfather, had always been my real dad. Huub had always been there for me. My biological father? I think I’ve seen him twice in my life. And I wasn’t the only one who skipped his last farewell. Ten people showed up after the death of the old alcoholic.
I was so glad my mother accepted me again, in 2011. Also because we’d just found out that Veronika was pregnant. The thought that I had to tell my little daughter that she couldn’t see her own granny was unbearable. We still have to talk things through, Mum and me, but at least we’ve made a start.
I know she hasn’t been proud of me all her life and I know I have caused her a lot of sadness and pain, while she did everything she could to give me a good childhood. Yes, when I think about that, I feel ashamed.
Apart from my trips to Hoensbroek, I drove to Zeist as well. That’s where the HQ of the Dutch FA is. I was studying there to become a football manager myself, because, yes, I really did miss the sport after all. I loved the idea of educating and teaching young kids, see if I could turn them into professionals-to-be. That was going to be my new challenge.
So there I was, back in the wonderful world of professional football! And what a nasty world it is. I noticed it immediately. Behind my back, people were saying to each other that Fernando Ricksen was the last person on earth who should become a football manager. He isn’t qualified at all, they whispered. The fighter, the alcoholic, the nutcase – what kind of an example is he for those kids!
I ignored them. The course was tough though. I’ve worked with world-class coaches such as Willem van Hanegem, Dick Advocaat and Louis van Gaal, so I know a thing or two about football, but the theoretical part of the course was bothering me. There was so much reading to do. And that’s not an easy thing for somebody who left school at sixteen and never did his homework. I found it hard to concentrate. I’d put the books aside every five minutes. But I didn’t give up. I showed willpower. I tried and tried. Finally, thanks to my Fighting Spirit, I succeeded and received my diploma.
For my scholarship I went to the Fortuna youth team. I didn’t feel like going to AZ and being confronted by all those bastards who still hated me. I didn’t have those problems at Fortuna. They loved me there. That’s one of the reasons that I look upon Fortuna Sittard as the most beautiful football club in the world.
Our matches were at 8 a.m. on Saturday mornings. I didn’t mind. It felt like a warm bath.
There was only one thing that I didn’t understand. Fortuna’s main team were doing really badly in the Jupiler League, Holland’s Second Division (the former First Division, to make it easier for you). According to the table, they were the worst professional football club in the land. I didn’t agree. I saw the guys train at times and they really weren’t that much worse than RKC Waalwijk, who were number one in the league.
It gave me heartache to see Fortuna suffer so much. They deserved better. The players did, and so did the fans. After the umpteenth defeat, I said to myself: I have to help this club!
In the meantime, back at Se7en strange things were happening too. Brilliant nights were followed by total disasters. Or so I was told. But it wasn’t true. I was being robbed – by my own employees. The nights I wasn’t there were just as busy as always; it was just that they told me they weren’t. And when I checked the accounts I knew it for sure: they had been taking me for a ride! So I fired the bastards.
That felt good, but my problems weren’t over yet. Thanks to their theft, I got into difficulties with the taxation department. Unpaid bills were piling up, and I was confronted with one debt collection agency after the other. This wasn’t fun any more. This wasn’t the life of a pub owner I had dreamt about. It was a complete disaster. Here was the proof that I wasn’t qualified for the job at all. Inexperienced Fernando had made a mess out of things once again. And he needed help.
The only man I could think about at this stage was Tjerk Vermanen – a freefighter, yup, I knew a few! He had a lot of experience in running bars and stuff. But as much as he tried to help me, it was too late. The damage had been done already. And in the autumn of 2011, Se7en went bankrupt. The dream was over. And 300,000 euros had gone down the drain. What a waste.
Luckily I still had the two loves of my life: Veronika and football.