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United’s hopeless pursuit of Jadon Sancho – the real story (theathletic.com)

Hi Folks,
Throwaway account here providing the full Article: https://theathletic.com/2115449/2020/10/06/manchester-united-jadon-sancho-transfer-window/ since it's behind a paywall.
United’s hopeless pursuit of Jadon Sancho – the real story
Laurie Whitwell, David Ornstein and more (Other contributor: Raphael Honigstein)
Ole Gunnar Solskjaer identified Jadon Sancho as his principal target this summer in what was seen as a vital opportunity for squad enhancement following Champions League qualification.
But after 10 weeks of opportunity for talks, Sancho remains a Borussia Dortmund player and the simple truth is that United never got close.
The Athletic has been told that Solskjaer urged Ed Woodward to keep trying, and financial concerns meant other signings were pushed to the periphery until the final 48 hours of the window.
Donny van de Beek arrived on September 2 but sources say United waited to pull the trigger on other purchases until it became clear Sancho was not arriving.
So for the third window in a row, United were active on deadline day, completing the signings of Edinson Cavani, Alex Telles, Amad Diallo and Facundo Pellistri. In January, it was Odion Ighalo, hot on the heels of Bruno Fernandes. Last summer, the club were trying to sign Mario Mandzukic or Paulo Dybala.
The cause for this year’s unedifying sense of late freneticism appears to centre on the priority given to the Sancho move and, fundamentally, a misunderstanding by United of Dortmund’s intentions.
Essentially, United did not believe Dortmund would stay firm on the price-tag of €120 million or their deadline of August 10, embarking on a long-running game of poker without realising that the Bundesliga club weren’t even at the table. United effectively sat still in the hope Dortmund would blink first and place the call they were ready to do business. Intermediaries attempted to broker a deal but were waiting on United to move, which did not happen.
Some sources felt Woodward was holding until the last moment to place an all-in bet, giving the impression of resistance in the ambition of driving the price down. But instead, United kept their chips and stayed true to their valuation. By never ruling themselves out of the deal though, United’s actions seriously annoyed Dortmund’s executives, who became even more entrenched in their position as the weeks went on.
When Dortmund sporting director Michael Zorc stood at the side of their training pitches on August 10, the first day of pre-season, and said the decision on Sancho staying was “final”, one alarmed United director made a call to check whether the statement was genuine. The response was along the lines of, “What did you expect? You knew the terms.”
Hans-Joachim Watzke, Dortmund’s chief executive, is said to have personally phoned United at the start of the summer and explained very clearly how much the deal would cost and when it needed to be done by.
United privately argue that the continued conversations after that point, conducted via intermediaries Emeka Obasi and Marco Lichtsteiner, were evidence of Dortmund remaining open to a sale. But the reason for the involvement of agents is hotly disputed.
United insist Dortmund wanted talks done through Obasi and Lichtsteiner, and some believe this was so Dortmund could stick to their public stance while having a backchannel to a potential resolution. United held lengthy discussions and made known what they were willing to pay, which held a firm limit given the current economic environment.
Sources say Dortmund reject that idea and deny they ever appointed agents. Previous deals with Arsenal and Barcelona for Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang and Ousmane Dembele respectively were based on face-to-face meetings with club counterparts.
On this occasion, they believed that they had provided the fee to United and since Woodward failed to match it by August 10, there was no need for further direct discussion.
United felt there was tacit encouragement to keep lines of communication going but the only way they could have got the deal on after that date was with a “crazy” offer along the lines of Neymar’s £200 million transfer to Paris Saint-Germain. Sources told The Athletic that if United had come in with an offer of €140-£150 million then Dortmund might have done business. Conscious of their reputation having set their position out so publicly, Dortmund would have been able to sell that as a turnaround made in extraordinary circumstances.
United argued that the €120 million price tag did not take into account the financial hit caused by the pandemic. Executives genuinely felt it should come down, given the full total of the transfer was potentially enormous. The Athletic has been told initial calculations rose to €250 million including wages and agent fees. United made what has been described as a “calm decision” to refuse that amount and felt vindicated when the government postponed the return of fans to stadiums costing the club another £50 million in lost revenue.
But it is understood that Dortmund originally planned for the €120 million as a “minimum” — and ideally wanted nearer the €147 million fee that Barcelona paid for Dembele — so it was an adjustment to even consider a bid that could reach that figure in installments.
In any case, United never got near to that guaranteed sum. One offer, submitted by chief negotiator Matt Judge through the agents in the final week of September, amounted to £80 million, plus add-ons. Once passed to Watzke, it was immediately rejected as too little too late. There was a sense at the Westfalenstadion that United did not take Dortmund’s demands seriously or were acting without full intentions to actually complete the signing.
All proposals were said to have been relayed to Dortmund via the agents knowing full well they would be turned down.
Sancho himself is believed to have felt undervalued by the offers and even if United had placed the right bid late on, it is understood he would have questioned why it did not come earlier.
Sancho was never going to agitate for a move unless United came close to Dortmund’s demands. Illness kept him out of the squad for Saturday’s 4-0 win over Freiburg but Sancho then attended a house party in London with Tammy Abraham and Ben Chilwell, in breach of lockdown rules, and will join up late with England as a result. He has since apologised.
The forward was prepared to join United but not “desperate” to move this summer. He was relaxed either way. That was the sense drawn by England team-mates at the September camp.
That being said, others close to United were under the impression he “would walk to Old Trafford”. Sancho texted Marcus Rashford about United, and the pair were said to be excited at the prospect of linking up. Sancho has many friends in Manchester from his time at Manchester City.
Other United players were in touch too and so was Solskjaer, who as long ago as January wanted to ascertain Sancho’s willingness to join and to get a personal sense of his character. Having privately acknowledged the possibility of a sale, Dortmund were aware of the conversations, which are standard for most transfers.
There had actually been dialogue with Sancho’s representatives dating back to when he left Manchester City for Dortmund in 2017, but talks commenced in earnest this year once United had secured Champions League football on July 26.
United’s exit from the Europa League was disappointing, but some close to the club felt it would at least reinforce the impetus for signings — a reminder to the Glazer family that funding was required to take the next step. “But extending the window to October 5 is probably the worst thing for Solskjaer,” said a source. “I can see United taking talks to the wire again.”
There were some raised eyebrows at United over reports of Sancho’s lateness to training and fines for breaching lockdown regulations in Germany. But United viewed the indiscretions as attributable to a desire to move on from Dortmund. “We’ll make Carrington a place where he wants to come to work every day,” one member of staff told a colleague.
Solskjaer had determined Sancho would be his main target, with one source saying in April: “We are ready to go, we know who we want, the people at the top are now certain.”
But that conviction was not found in the pursuit, with Dortmund soon frustrated at United’s reluctance to commit to a fee or structure. There were allegations of “freestyling”, a refusal to provide a top line, and when pushed for answers, Judge suggested the issue lay with “the owners”. Agents proposing other players were told of a £50 million net spend budget. Executives feel they have a responsibility to protect the long-term strength of the club by not over-paying.
The Athletic has previously reported how Joel Glazer, in daily contact with Woodward, is involved in all major signings and paid particularly close attention to the Sancho deal. There were accusations of a split in opinion between the pair over the price to be sanctioned, with Woodward advocating a higher fee, but United insist board members were united on their view that €120 million was too much in the post-COVID-19 climate. Recruitment staff were told about a significant budget being allocated to Sancho but later the internal line back from Woodward was that the deal was “too much money”.
Privately United suggested the €120 million figure could be reached including some unrealistic bonuses, which may have allowed Dortmund to save face with a headline figure. Dortmund were resolute in their stance though and believed a higher price could be achieved next summer. The cause for their confidence was revealed when Zorc announced a previously unknown extension to Sancho’s contract, meaning it did not run out until 2023.
United insist they knew all those details and were for a long time frustrated by what they perceived to be the slow process of dealing with Dortmund through Obasi, Sancho’s agent, and Lichtsteiner, the brother of former Arsenal player Stephan. The two intermediaries are described as “very close”. Lichtsteiner previously assisted on the departures of Aubameyang and Dembele to Arsenal and Barcelona respectively, and has vast experience of difficult transfers. He is said to be well-regarded and very discreet with information.
United have in the past worked on deals through agents, and last summer placed an offer for the Newcastle United midfielder Sean Longstaff in this manner. Sources at Newcastle suspected this was so United had deniability if unsuccessful.
On other occasions, the technique has worked well. Woodward conducted the purchase of Juan Mata from Chelsea without one word to his counterparts at Stamford Bridge to block any chance of Wayne Rooney being brought into the conversation. Chelsea wanted to buy Rooney that window.
Before any fee could be finalised this time, there were difficulties over wages and agent fees.
It has been suggested to The Athletic that the opening contract offer to Sancho was actually slightly lower than his Dortmund salary. As is customary in Germany, Sancho’s contract was heavily incentivised and contained bonus payments for each point Dortmund achieved.
Conscious of maintaining a certain wage structure, United’s initial proposal was less than Sancho’s total pay packet at Dortmund. Van de Beek joined on £110,000 a week, for instance, and his representatives were told that was in line with a refined structure given Fernandes signed for £150,000 a week.
A second offer to Sancho, in early August, is said to have achieved parity with his Dortmund deal, with the potential for a fractional increase based on performance. This was not accepted. Sancho’s representatives, who carefully organised a move away from City in 2017, were clear in their view of Sancho’s worth and expected to be recompensed as such.
Though not asking for money equitable to David De Gea, who signed a deal worth more than £375,000 a week within the final 12 months of becoming a free agent, the terms desired were thought to be in the region of Paul Pogba’s £250,000 a week.
There were reports that wages had been sorted in the first week of August but this was not the case. United believed leaks to that end emanating from Germany were an attempt to “put pressure” on the process.
Still, there was positivity about a solution. Sources say the Liverpool manager Jurgen Klopp was keeping himself abreast of Sancho’s situation and around this stage told friends he believed the player would end up at Old Trafford.
There was eventually a breakthrough on Sancho’s salary in the second week of September.
Running parallel were negotiations over agent fees. Some have suggested an initial proposal for a payment to the agents put United on the back foot. After negotiations, a lower sum was agreed. But that still left the transfer fee and, as the gap remained, other options were considered. A prospective loan deal for Gareth Bale was set up but the Wales international declined to wait as a reserve for Sancho. He had the emotional pull of Tottenham Hotspur in any case.
Watford’s Ismaila Sarr, previously not regarded as a genuine option, came into the reckoning in the final fortnight of the window when United explored a loan move. With Watford in the Championship, Sarr has until the domestic deadline of October 16 to join a Premier League club.
Talks also commenced over Dembele. An original inquiry for the Barcelona forward was made in July but at that stage, Dembele was not interested. Sources say Liverpool also made a check back then.
But while Liverpool instead signed Diogo Jota on September 19, it was United returning in the dying embers of the market to investigate whether Dembele might join on loan. It was a late move. A source close to the Barcelona dressing room said at the time: “He intended to stay at Barcelona. In pre-season, his attitude was really different and the players were super happy to see how he was training and how involved in the routine. Therefore, everything has to have changed a lot for him to have decided to go to United.”
In the end, United only wanted a loan. Barcelona demanded a sale, so the situation looked unlikely to develop until a late change of stance by the La Liga club on Monday evening. Barcelona indicated they would agree to a loan but only if Dembele extended his contract at the Nou Camp, and the deal was off.
Industry insiders reported numerous other inquiries and proposals put to the club by representatives, such as Real Madrid’s Luka Jovic, Inter Milan’s Ivan Perisic and Juventus’ Douglas Costa. There was exasperation among some at Carrington that United were leaving business so late again and having to work down their list to second and third options. “Looks like a panic buy,” was the assessment by one source close to the dressing room of the Cavani signing.
United did ask Bayer Leverkusen for Kai Havertz in January but were put off by the €100 million fee and never made a follow-up call this summer, clearing the path to Chelsea.
Meanwhile, the Sancho failure represents the third time Dortmund have got their way over United this year, after the signings of Erling Haaland and Jude Bellingham — two episodes that have caused lingering frustration.
Some agents who have worked with United on other deals believe the club should have halted talks on Sancho much earlier if €120 million was seen as too much and pursued alternatives. There are accusations the delay speaks to a fundamental issue in recruitment, which sources call a paralysis of decision-making. But given how much Solskjaer wanted Sancho, United wanted to try for their No 1 target for as long as possible.
United accept they have missed out on a top player but insist they have not over-extended their finances. The signings of Diallo and Pellistri, both 18-year-old wingers, are regarded as viable options for the first-team once bedded into England through the under-21s side. Diallo’s cost of €21 million plus €20 million is not insignificant, however, inevitably inviting questions about why United refused the extra money for Sancho. Diallo has been scouted since 2016 and is considered one of the most exciting prospects in Italy. There are echoes when Anthony Martial signed for big expense and little experience and became Joel Glazer’s favourite player.
Sancho will stay in the crosshairs, for the next time trading opens. It’s understood he long since shifted his focus to a future transfer rather than moving in the current window. But it is anticipated more clubs will be in the reckoning for his signature by then.
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Has anybody else lost faith in UF?

Today is the day that I finally snapped. It's the day I realized that UF's "U Matter We Care" slogan is nothing but a meaningless platitude. UF is more focused on making a dollar than any of their students' well-being. UF's coronavirus protocols (and the execution of said protocols) has been abysmal and has some major oversights that seem to have been put in place just to cut costs. There's currently no transportation to a quarantine/isolation dorm when you've been confirmed to have coronavirus. Have fun walking to Lakeside in the sweltering heat, you sick child. What, you didn't bring a car to campus? Why not? There's plenty of parking spots around and cars are super cheap! UF has even suggested to some students that they should take an Uber or a public bus to transport them (and their belongings) to quarantine for two weeks. This is absolutely absurd and it's hard to believe that not one member of UF's administration thought of this problem.
One of the quarantine dorms has had broken AC for a few days and it's nearly 100 degrees inside. UF has known about this FOR DAYS and they still haven't fixed it. Hundreds of potentially sick kids are trapped inside their quarantine rooms in sweltering heat and they don't have a choice. However, they're free to leave if they want because there's absolutely no supervision or enforcement of quarantine once you arrive. People are free to come and go from the building as they please.
UF has been notoriously bad about testing its students. They didn't require testing to return to campus (opting for a meaningless questionnaire that simplifies to "do you have coronavirus? If you say no, you're good to go!") and they haven't mandated any form of testing as the semester has progressed. There have been cases in many dorms across campus. According to this subreddit: Hume, Rawlings (all floors), Murphree, Fletcher, Jennings, and the Yulee area have all had cases. UF refuses to test students who have been in contact with a confirmed case unless those students start developing symptoms as well. The biggest issue with this virus is that there are ASYMPTOMATIC CARRIERS. It could take up to 2 weeks to develop symptoms, and by that time, someone could've spread it to hundreds of other people. UF doesn't want to spend money on test kits, though. Instead, they'd rather buy a fucking supercomputer for hundreds of millions of dollars and build a new UFPD building that costs $23 million. All this university is willing to do is give out 2 free face masks, slap some hand sanitizer boxes up around campus, provide us (1) free optional test, and put up pieces of paper saying "Wear face masks! Don't spread germs!"
The CWC is massively underfunded. People have set appointments and have had to wait MONTHS for an available counselor to meet with them. Some have even been turned away when seeking help and encouraged to find other therapists on campus because the CWC couldn't take on any new students. When you're in a crisis and you need to seek professional help, the last thing you want to hear is "come back in a few months" or "sorry, but we can't help. Go find someone else". It feels like the CWC exists just so UF can say that they provide mental health counseling to their students. In actuality, it's too small and overcrowded to function effectively.
UF encourages social distancing and avoiding mass gatherings, but are more than happy to partially fill the stadium for a football game in order to turn a profit. There's no way they can maintain social distancing guidelines when people enteexit the stadium. This is doomed to fail but UF doesn't care because football is their cash cow. The hypocrisy in their enforcement of social distancing is unreal. There have been many parties reported off-campus, and despite threatening disciplinary action, UF has yet to lift a finger against these students.
The students aren't much better. There's so many idiots walking down the sidewalk that don't wear a face mask when walking by other people. People treat the air outdoors as if it's purified and couldn't possibly transmit a virus. News flash: IF YOU GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO SOMEONE OUTSIDE, THEY WILL STILL GET SICK. Students throw parties and have a complete disregard for social distancing. They clearly don't give a shit about anybody else's health and well-being so long as they are having a good time.
UF cleans the dorms in the mornings on Monday through Friday. Nobody works on the weekend. This means that between Friday morning - Monday morning, nothing is sanitized or cleaned. THAT'S 3 WHOLE DAYS. UF opened the dorms at about 70-75% capacity knowing damn well that its just a giant petri dish. They've already started to fall apart and this isn't stopping anytime soon.
It feels like UF isn't pushing testing onto its students because they want to keep their confirmed cases numbers down. Once they make it to the tuition deadline (this Friday!), they've got your money and all bets are off. Both students and UF administration have demonstrated by their actions that they don't care about their fellow students.
I'd like to thank the UF students and staff who actually have tried to help. There ARE students who have been responsible with social distancing and have been wearing face masks, and there are staff members who have been trying their hardest. I appreciate your efforts, but right now, it's not enough. We need to do better and the oversights, not only with coronavirus but with student well-being in general, need to be addressed. We don't need a $23 million dollar department for a university police department. We need to put more money towards helping our students instead of boosting our #7 ranking and patting ourselves on the back for being a top 10 public university. We don't matter to them. Our money is what matters to them.
I used to love this university, but my opinion has soured recently and I can't wait to get out. Sorry for the jumble of thoughts. I really just needed to get this out.
submitted by angergator to ufl [link] [comments]

I process undeliverable mail for the USPS. The dead letters are starting to creep me out

I work for the U.S. postal service. Every morning for about a week, there’s been an open letter on my desk.
This isn't unusual. One of my duties is handling undeliverable mail – so-called dead letters. A lot of times, they’re undeliverable because they’re damaged, open, or suspicious.
But these letters aren’t normal.
They all have commonalities. No return address, for one. And they have the same damage pattern, like someone held a lighter to the back of the envelope.
And they’re all creepy as hell.
I shouldn't post the letters. It’s a huge no-no in my line of work.) But I’m at a loss, and I guess hoping for theories or maybe even information.
Anyway, here’s the letter that was on my desk this morning:
Dear Danny,
I was looking at our wedding pictures last night. I don’t have them anymore, I got rid of them. Not because I hate you, just because it hurt to have them. But Mrs. Hernandez – you know, Kayla’s mom – has them on her Facebook. Our wedding photos, on her Facebook, buried under 3,000 other photos. I’d have never even seen them except she was sharing pictures of Kayla. As I’m sure you know, Kayla’s in our wedding pictures. She looks as happy as we do. I wonder if she was already using by then. I guess I’ll never know. Not that there’d be any point in knowing.
Here’s something you never knew: the whole day of our wedding, I was crying. Not because I didn’t want to marry you – I did, more than you probably know – but because I was so sad my dad wasn’t there. It was like this endless merry-go-round of emotion; on one hand, I was profoundly grateful that he’d known you. The two most important people in my life were important to each other, too, which was precious. Not as precious as having him there, though. Not nearly.
It just hurt so bad, Danny. Our wedding was the first milestone my dad didn’t see. The first of many. I guess you understand how that feels now, but you didn’t back then. Kayla did, though. So when I sat in her room, crying my eyes out because crying is the only way to keep grief from building up until it splits you open, Kayla sat with me and let me cry. That’s why, when four o’clock rolled around, I was able to put on my wedding dress and walk up the purple carpet Mrs. Hernandez rolled out across her backyard – she sprinkled it with sunflower petals, remember? From Kayla’s sunflower patch – and smile. Not because I wasn’t sad – I was – but because I could sense the joy growing underneath my sorrow. Sensing it made it stronger, allowed it to rise and coat everything, even the grief, with happiness. All because Kayla sat with me and just let me cry.
I’m sorry you never did that for me, and I’m sorry I never did that for you.
Our wedding photos are so beautiful, Danny. When I saw them, I remembered every second. It was August and the day was stifling, but a cool wind came down the mountain during the ceremony. It messed up my hair and yours. Mrs. Hernandez has a picture of us laughing in front of the makeshift altar, trying to keep each other’s hair back before we kissed. That’s the best picture, but not my favorite. My favorite is the one where we’re sitting at the splintery old picnic table. The sun had already set, but the clouds caught the light and blazed rosy and gold. The air itself glowed pink, even after twilight turned everything else blue. We look like we’re glowing, too. We’re leaning into each other, shoulder to shoulder, face to face. We aren’t smiling in that picture, but we look so content. Like we belong. Like we’re one.
I don’t even remember what we were talking about, and that makes me so sad I can barely breathe.
I remember what came after the wedding, though. It was four in the morning at the Holiday Inn in San Pedro, and I woke up crying. It was horrific. Like I was being crushed. I didn’t want to wake you and make you suffer with me, so I got out of bed, grabbed my duffel bag, and took it into the bathroom. I riffled through it looking for my dad’s letter. You know the one. He wrote it just before he died, when I was tied up in that fucking job in Seattle. The one that wouldn’t give me any time off to see him. (The one that made you break up with me – not that it matters now, or ever really did.)
That letter meant everything to me. I brought it everywhere I went and I was sure I’d packed it but I couldn’t find it. I started to panic. I used my phone light to search the hotel room until I finally found it under the bed. The relief was so overwhelming I had to sit for a few minutes in the dark, willing myself to get up so I could go back to the bathroom and read it.
I crept back to that cold shiny bathroom and read my letter for the thousandth time. I had it memorized by then. But it was less about reading the letter than about seeing it. Knowing that I was touching something Dad had written was both heartbreaking and soothing. It did nothing for the weight crushing my lungs, but it took the pain out of the pressure. This is what the letter said:
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. But letters are always good, too. You can pull out a letter anytime and read it, which is helpful when you’re feeling sad. (I have firsthand experience because I still read all of yours, even the ones you wrote when you were at summer camp a million years ago). So I wrote you this letter. Sorry I’m not a good writer.
Nothing much has changed. I’m just keeping busy. I went to a football game last night. It was fun, but sad without you. I spent half the game talking to another guy whose son just left for college. I won’t bore you with the details of our conversation, but let’s just say we were both pretty soggy by the third quarter.
Work’s a mess (but you know all about that). It doesn’t matter how sick you are, things still have to get done. On one hand, I don’t like it. It makes me tired. On the other hand, I think it helps. Having a purpose, even if it’s exhausting, is important. The doctor is exhausting but important too. Same old news as always, I won’t bore you with what you already know.
It’s pretty cold here. I know, I know, it’s wintertime. But it’s different. Maybe because the winds have been so bad this year, but today you couldn’t even go outside without feeling like you’d never be warm again. Maybe that’s just me, though. I guess the world feels pretty cold for both of us right now. But it won’t stay that way. That’s the great thing about seasons. They always change.
I bet it’s pretty cold up there, too. Rainy all the time, pretty gray. So I was thinking we could brighten it up a little. Your apartment has some good, strong windowsills. I want to make a flowerbox for you. You could plant orange poppies. If you keep them inside and harvest the seeds, you could have poppies all year round. Your place would always look bright and happy, which will help you feel a little better even when things are grayest. I know you don’t have a lot of time, but if you take measurements for the length, width, depth, and distance to the window, I’ll build that flowerbox and bring it when I come to see you. It sounds pretty silly, but those flowers have a good effect on the soul. When I’m feeling sad, I go out to my garden and look at them. They always make me feel peaceful, and they remind me that nothing, not even sadness, is forever. I bet they’ll do the same for you. I harvested some of the seeds myself last summer. I’ll bring some to you. That way, next year, we can grow the same poppies together even though we’re far apart.
Speaking of which, I’ll be going to Midnight Mass on the 24th. I’m going to sit in the tenth pew on the left side, in the second-to-last seat on the left (because I know you like to sit on the end – I don’t blame you.) I was thinking you could go to Midnight Mass there in Seattle, and sit on the tenth pew on the left side in the very last seat on the left. So even though we won’t see each other, we’ll be together.
Try not to be too sad. Things will get better. They always do. Remember, seasons change. We just have to hold on and be as patient as we can.
Don’t worry about coming down here to see me. I’ll be visiting you soon, so you don’t have to worry about getting in trouble at work.
I love you so much and miss you every day. Don’t be too sad. We’ll be OK until the seasons change.
All my love,
Dad
I sat in that bathroom and read it again and again for hours, until you came to check on me. When you saw me crying, you started to cry, too. It was so sweet, and I loved you for it. Still do. But I’m sorry, too, because I know how helpless it made you feel.
I never took the measurements for that flowerbox. I went to Midnight Mass, though. Left-most seat in the tenth pew on the left side of the chapel, just like Dad said. I almost missed the service because work ran so late. I didn’t even get to call him, that’s how shitty work was that day. But I made it to church just in time. Even though the church was full to bursting, that seat was empty. So I sat there, and it was wonderful. I did feel like I was there with my dad. Like if I turned my head I’d see him sitting next to me. Like we were really ringing in Christmas together.
Which is a fucking joke, because he’d died the night before.
Even though it wasn’t rational, I felt like my job, my apartment, and that whole fucking city were responsible for his death. I couldn’t drive to work, answer the phone, go to the movies, or even grab a pizza without remembering that I’d never see him again. That he was dead, and no amount of love or depth of heartbreak or power of hell or scheme of man would ever bring him back. That’s why I came back home. It’s not why we got back together, though. We got back together because you felt sorry for me. Which was fine. I needed you and besides, I couldn’t stand the idea of being with anyone my dad would never even meet. That wasn’t the only reason I was with you, though. I promise. I really did love you more than I can ever say. That’s why it was so hard to see our photos. Not just because of Kayla, even though that was hard, too. But because when you see those pictures of us – dancing, talking, laughing, just being with each other – you can feel how much love there is. Like the love itself is alive. I think that’s the greatest tragedy in the world: that love as strong as that still isn’t strong enough to save itself.
You were strong for me, though. Too strong, sometimes. You tried to make me strong, too, which was a mistake. It didn’t make me stronger or less sad. It just pissed me off.
But when your mom died a couple of years later, I tried. I really tried to give you a safe place to be sad. But you wouldn’t give it to yourself. You thought you were being stoic, but you were just being angry. You got mean. I understood. I didn’t blame you for it. But I do blame you for what happened on December 23rd of that year.
I was reading my Dad’s letter again. You came in after work and saw me. You turned to stone. Hard and cold, which would have been okay. Except you started to burn. I could feel it: Rage, building up until it came out of you in waves, the way love comes out of our wedding pictures.
Finally you snatched the letter out of my hand and threw it down. You screamed, “Grow the fuck up. Parents die. Mine did. But you won’t ever see me moping every goddamn year. You won’t see me crying in the bathroom every week. You won’t see me talking about my mom every goddamn day or whining about imaginary flowerboxes every goddamn Saturday, because I’m a goddamn adult. You are too, so will you please grow the fuck up.”
I get it. You weren’t even completely wrong. But it was the anniversary of the day he died, Danny. Fuck.
Seriously…fuck.
After you’d stormed out of the house, I found the letter tucked halfway under the bed, a few feet from where you’d dropped it, and started to read.
At first I thought I was dreaming. You know how when you read things in dreams, it’s kind of correct but terribly wrong? World-bending, upside-down, heart-poundingly wrong? That’s what it felt like, and that’s because the letter had changed.
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice, but I can’t hear you where I am, so letters will have to do. I miss you so much, and I wish you were here. But that’s not a productive line of thinking. Just makes us both too sad.
I’m not sure how to say this, but Danny’s in a bad place. He had problems with his mom, and what he just did wasn’t him. Not really. But it doesn’t excuse what he did. I don’t even know if I should be giving you advice, because between you and me, I just want to kick his ass. But I know you love him. So maybe give him a day or two, til he’s less soggy. Maybe wait till after Christmas. Christmas always brought out the worst in your grandpa.
About the flowerbox—
I folded the letter up along its creases, which were so deep they were wearing into holes. My hands were shaking badly, and I dropped it not once, but twice. I finally got a good grip on it and flipped it back under the bed.
I didn’t look at that letter again for three years.
For your part, you didn’t bring up your mom except when you got drunk. You’d cry…and then you’d get angry. Usually at yourself for being a stupid baby who cried for his druggie mommy, and always at me for telling you it was okay to be sad. Occasionally you’d just get mad at me straightaway and yell at me for living in the past and being a child, even though I didn’t read letters or cry at all anymore.
You didn’t get drunk often, though. So it was okay. And I knew just how sad you were. I always felt too sad to breathe, which was awful. But you? You were too sad to even let yourself feel sad.
So between us, I guess was the lucky one.
Your refusal to feel things only extended to sadness, thank God. When I got pregnant, you were over the moon. To be honest, I thought you’d be angry. When I saw how happy you were, it made me cry. Good tears, though. You could tell, and it made you even happier.
We stayed up all night talking about the baby. If it was a boy, we were going to name it after my dad. If it was a girl, we were going to name it Lacie after your mom. You didn’t care either way, but I prayed for a girl. For one thing, I was scared that I’d never be able to say our son’s name – my dad’s name – without hurting, and I knew what that would do to you. For another, I thought a baby girl with your mom’s name would help you.
And when our baby turned out to be a girl, you cried. I’d been right; a daughter was the best thing for both of us.
Everything was perfect, until it went to hell.
I’m sorry I lost my mind when she was born. A heart defect. What a stupid reason to die, and an even stupider reason to have never gotten to live. When you think about it, we all have heart defects, and we all have to live with them. Our baby should have been allowed to live with hers.
I know it killed you inside to see me fight and scream and hold onto her. I didn’t do it to be difficult. I did it because somewhere in my hysteria, I really thought I could bring her back if I held her long enough. It wasn’t hope, it wasn’t wishful thinking, it was something I knew. The way you know that deep cuts need stitches. But imagine that one day, out of nowhere, nobody else knew that. You’re sitting there bleeding out from a massive cut, but the doctor, the nurses, your family, literally everyone keeps saying that stitches won’t work. You’re dying, Danny, and everyone around you is telling you that the one thing you know will save your life just won’t work. That’s what it felt like. In my heart, my mind, my soul, my bones, I knew that our baby would breathe again if they’d just let me hold her for a while. But everyone – including you – was trying to take her away and keep her dead.
When the sedative wore off, the first thing I saw was you. You were holding her, crying so much your face was barely recognizable. When you noticed I was awake – noticed I was watching – you froze. And then you turned to stone. I passed out again.
When I came to, she was gone, and you were still stone.
You never turned back.
When they released me to go home, you took care of me. But there was no warmth. Only duty. Which was understandable. I know how hard I made it for you. And you know me, so you could probably tell that I was wishing my dad was there instead of you.
On your first day back at work, Kayla came to stay with me. I’d been waiting for this, for you to be gone for a little while. As soon as your car pulled out of the driveway, I asked Kayla to get my letter out from under the bed. I could have done it. I wasn’t crippled. But I was scared.
So Kayla dug it out for me, all covered in dust and loose hairs, and gave it to me. I felt sick when I opened it, and sicker when I read it.
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. I heard your voice for a little while when Lacie was born. You sounded so sad. I told you not to be so sad, but you couldn’t hear my voice. You still can’t. So letters will have to do.
Lacie’s with me. She’s so little. I’m so sad she didn’t make it, but I can see why. She’s too little for the world. She’s perfect, though. Looks just like you did. It would have been such a joy to see her grow up. But it’s a joy to have her here, too.
I know your life is gray, honey. Gray everywhere, grayer than that last Christmas in Seattle. What you need is brightness. How you get it is up to you, but if you still want that flowerbox we talked about, I can help you. I can’t build it for you any more than I can talk to you, but I can write out the instructions for you. It shouldn’t take you long to build, an hour or two at most. When it’s done, you can put it on the sill in Lacie’s bedroom. It’ll make things bright again. Not warm. That only comes with time. A lot of time. But if it looks bright enough, you’ll at least remember what it feels like to be warm, which will remind you that you will feel warm again someday.
I wish I could hear your voice. I wish you could hear mine. But this will do in the meantime.
I love you, and miss you so much.
All my love,
Dad
I didn’t believe in ghosts. Still don’t. That made the letter both scarier and sweeter. It had to be my dad, I thought. Maybe God was giving me a break. Letting him through to comfort me when I needed it most. So I folded the letter and tucked it under the lamp so you wouldn’t see it. I knew you wouldn’t want to see it.
What I didn’t know was that you no longer wanted to see me.
When Lacie died, it was like I killed your mom all over again. Maybe it was because I’d made the stillbirth even more traumatic. Maybe it was because I saw you cry. Maybe you were just tired. Too tired to feel anything for yourself, or for me.
Whatever the reason, we were done. No love between us except long ago, trapped in photos from a distant season.
You moved out the week I went back to work. Right in with Jen. It destroyed me, but I get it. She was twenty-one, more beautiful than I was on my best day, and happy. Happy to be at work, happy to be at home, happy to be with you, happy just to be. Whenever someone posts pictures of you two together, I see the love between you. And I see the relief in your face.
Sometimes I wish it was impossible to fall out of love, that you and I had stayed together until the end of time. Sometimes I wish we’d never fallen in love at all. And every single day I wish you hadn’t felt so sorry for me when I came back from Seattle. If you’d felt just a little less sorry for me, we would never have gotten married.
And today, I’d hurt a little less.
It should come as no surprise, but the day you moved out, I tore through the house for my Dad’s letter. I couldn’t find it. Not under the lamp, under the dresser, in the closet, the bedroom, or anywhere else. I called you even though you were at Jen’s apartment, and screamed at you for destroying my letter. You tried to be sweet, God bless you. You were so kind during that phone call, so gentle. So gentle I thought you might feel sorry for me again. Sorry enough to come back to me. So I hung up.
Then I ran outside. I ran and ran and ran and ran and ran, until everything hurt and I could barely breathe. I stopped at the park by our old elementary school. I found the bench we were sitting on the first time you asked me out, curled up, and slept.
When I went home, my dad’s letter was on the floor by the bed. This is what it said:
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. But letters are always good, too. You know what isn’t good? Danny. Danny can go to hell. There are no voices in hell. No letters, either. There are no voices here, but there are letters. So letters will have to do.
You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. You can’t make people grow up if they don’t want to grow up. Danny doesn’t want to grow up, because growing up means you have to handle your own hurt. He never figured out how to handle his own hurt, let alone anyone else’s. Until he does, he’s going to ruin every last one of his relationships until he ruins himself. Just don’t let him ruin you. I know you’re hurting right now, but this hurt? It’s just a season of your life, and seasons always change.
Nothing’s changed where I am, though. Lacie is as small as ever. Where I am, babies don’t grow up or change unless their parents are with them, too. So you won’t miss anything. Think of it like this - she’s on hold till you get here. I hope that brings you some joy, knowing your baby and your dopey old dad can’t wait to see and hear you again.
Now, about that flowerbox. It kills me that I never got to build one for you. You need some brightness, especially now. Here’s what you’re going to need:
4 lengths of wood
1 length of wood cut to fit the bottom
Wood primer
Drill and screws
Paint – any color you want, but I’d pick blue – that’s Lacie’s favorite
Nails
Sandpaper – medium grit
Wood filler
Here’s what you do…
He had a full-bore tutorial, right down to how to use sandpaper. I read it again and again, memorizing it in case the letter changed again. Once I could recite it to myself without a hitch, I went to the hardware store. It took me a couple of days to build the flowerbox, but soon enough it was finished and the paint – a nice robin’s egg blue—had dried. It was pretty. The orange poppies complemented the blue perfectly.
That night, when I came out of the shower, I found the letter on the floor, half-tucked under the bed. It made me shiver. I still kept the letter under the lamp, never on the floor. It’s too dangerous on the floor. Exposed to cats and dogs and, well, you.
I picked it up. Every hair on my body stood on end – no mean feat when it’s all sopping wet. I was scared. Full of dread, a deer in headlights, because I didn’t feel alone, Danny. The room looked empty, but I felt eyes. More than eyes. A presence. Not a good one.
I unfolded the letter – soft and wrinkled by now, coming apart at the folds – and read:
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. But letters are always good, too. You can pull out a letter anytime and read it. I wish you could write me letters. I wrote you this letter. Sorry I’m not a good writer.
You’re a good handy(wo)man, though! You did a great job with that box. You know what else is good? You picked Lacie’s very favorite shade of blue. How’d you know? Mother’s intuition, I guess.
It’s selfish of me but I wish I could hear your voice again. So does Lacie. She misses you so much. So do I. Every day, she looks at me and I feel her question: When’s my mommy coming? Later, I tell her. When she’s ready.
I’m glad you have so many seasons ahead of you. But I miss you so much and I wish you were ready now. Where I am, it’s grey without you. And hard to remember what it felt like to be warm. There’s no warmth without you, but you’d understand that since you’ve lost Lacie. At least we’ll all be warm when we’re together again.
I love you so much, and can’t wait to hear you again, Lucy. Until then, you’re in my heart.
All my love,
Dad
It was wonderful, magical, and heartbreaking all at once. My baby had a favorite color. If she had a favorite color, she was real. She was alive. Dad too. They were together, keeping each other happy while they waited for me to join them. Even when I felt cold and gray, even when I felt alone, I wasn’t. Not really. Because wherever they were, they loved me.
I read and reread and reread the letter until I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was back on the floor, halfway under the bed.
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. But letters are always good, too. You can pull a letter off the floor and read it any time. I wish you’d write me a letter. I wish you’d talk to me. But that can’t happen where I am now, so me writing you will have to do. Sorry I’m not a good writer.
I just want to say good morning. Don’t be too sad. Seasons change. Not always for the better, but at least they change.
I miss you so much, and love you even more.
All my love,
Dad
It was like reality exploded. Everything got bright, happy, and warm. It reminded me of when our baby was stillborn, except inverted: joyous instead of dreadful. Because I was sure, absolutely, one hundred thousand percent sure, that my dad was under the bed.
I slid to the edge of the mattress, heart pounding with euphoria, and dropped down so I could look underneath. My heart swelled, Danny. So big, so fast, so happy, I thought it was going to kill me…and I didn’t even mind, because it would have been a beautiful way to die.
I so fully expected to see my dad under there that I couldn’t immediately comprehend that he wasn’t. Only dust and darkness.
I slid all the way down to the floor and cried again.
I didn’t go into work that day. I stayed home, on the couch, and vacillated between rereading the letter and looking through all the pictures on my computer. I printed a few. Mostly of my dad, when he was young and I was little. That’s how I remember him most of the time: how he looked when I was five years old.
I don’t even know what I’d give to be five years old again, riding his shoulders at the zoo. Probably exactly what you’ve give to be five years old and doing just about anything with your mom before her drug problem.
You were so militant about drugs because of that. I thought I understood – I’m kind of a teetotaler myself. I don’t even drink. But I didn’t actually understand. Because even though I never used them, I didn’t care if anyone else did. But you…hell, Danny. I never told you, but I will now because you’re never going to read this: I think the way you talked about people who use drugs is why Kayla never told me she was in trouble. And she made the right decision. You’d have gone on the warpath if you knew my best friend was on heroin, and fuck the reasons why. You wouldn’t have cared. You wouldn’t have let yourself care. I wouldn’t have let myself care just to keep you from melting down on me.
Sometimes I think that if I’d never married you, she would have felt safe enough to tell me, which might have been enough to save her. And here’s the truth, Danny. I loved the hell out of you. But part of me will hate myself forever for marrying you – a man who ran off with a college kid two months after our baby died—because if I hadn’t, Kayla might still be alive.
I know that’s not fair, though. I’m sorry.
So, I printed the photos of my dad and a few of Kayla and me. I looked at them most of the day, crying like a child—just the way you didn’t like. I hadn’t realized until then just how close I’d come to exploding from the pressure of my grief. It made me wonder about you, though. How you keep it all in without exploding. I wish I could be more like you, at least in that way. But if wishes were horses…well…who cares.
When I finally dragged myself to bed, the letter – which I’d had in my hand the entire day, Danny, the entire day – was on the floor, halfway under the bed. The relief I felt was exquisite. This was exactly what I needed. Just the thing to let the pressure off, live another day, and make it one step closer to the changing of the seasons.
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. I heard it today, but it wasn’t happy. It was sad. I know you’re sad. My letters don’t make you less sad. (Makes me wonder why I’m writing them.) I think I’ll start writing you at night. No more morning letters. At least if you feel sad at night, you don’t have to try and do anything else. I hate that they make you feel sad. I think if I stopped writing them, you’d be even sadder. I know what would make you happy, though – hearing my voice. But you can’t hear my voice where you are. We need to be together for that.
I’m sorry everything’s making you sad. Even the happy pictures. Nothing feels happy to you now, I know. I wish I could change that, but I can’t – at least not while we’re apart.
Be strong. Things change. Not always for the better, but at least they change. Change will come for you too. You just have to be patient. You just have to hold on.
I miss you so much, and I’m counting the days until I see you again.
All my love,
Dad
I went into work the next morning. Knowing that I’d come home to a letter from my dad made life tolerable again. And there was always a new letter; no matter where I’d placed it the night before, I’d always find it halfway under my bed.
The letter was always different. Sometimes it was short. Sometimes it was very long. Most of the time, it was strange. Always, it told me how much I was missed, and how happy I’d be when I was reunited with Dad and Lacie. It was bittersweet at best. But it helped. Even as it hurt, it helped.
Like drugs, in a way.
December came again. The seasons had changed four times since you left me, but it didn’t feel like it. It was the same season in my heart, unchanged and endless. Grey, cold, and hopelessly dark.
The only light in that spirit-winter were Dad’s letters. Tiny flames in a vast and frozen darkness.
But right when I needed them most, they changed.
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. Why won’t you let me hear your voice? Letters are always good, but they aren’t enough. You know what it’s like to be away from Lacie. Imagine how I feel being away from you, when you’re so sad and soggy. So cold. It doesn’t have to be that way. Seasons change, but not always for the better. What if the next season isn’t better? What will I do? My letters aren’t enough as it is. If things change, if they get worse, what will you do? You need to hear me. See me. But you can’t. Not where you are. Sorry I’m not a good writer.
It’s not just me. Lacie cries whenever you get sad now, too. When is my mommy coming? she always asks. I don’t know, I tell her. She’s far away, waiting for the season to change, but what if it doesn’t? What if it gets worse? What if you keep getting sadder and sadder and grayer and grayer and colder and colder until you’ll never be warm again, even if you’re with us? What if you get so sad that you make us sad, too? Maybe you should stop waiting for the seasons to change. Just give up on them and take the change in your own hands. Come to where we are, so we can all be warm and bright.
I miss you so much, Lucy, and I’m so scared for you. It kills me, knowing how you’re hurting. Letters can be good, but they’re not enough. You need to hear my voice, but you can’t do that where you are. You can only do that where I am.
I love you more than anything. Please let me hear your voice.
All my love,
Dad
The letter got worse from there. Always asking me to hear his voice. To let him hear mine. To give up on the seasons. To come to him and Lacie, so I could be warm and happy again.
Finally, I just stopped reading. Every night I’d see the letter tucked halfway under my bed. Every night I’d want to read it…but every night I didn’t. Not even when Kayla died. Not ever.
Until one of our mutuals shared the picture of you and Jen with your new baby in the hospital. A girl you’d named Lacie.
I thought of you crying over my baby. Crying so hard your face was barely recognizable. How, when you saw me looking, you turned to stone and never turned back.
At that moment I hated everything. Every fucking thing. I hated Jen, I hated you, I hated your new Lacie most of all. It was too much to feel. Too much to process. I wished I could be like you and shove it away under six feet of mental dirt and go on with my life. But I couldn’t. I can’t.
So I went to my bedroom and found the letter tucked halfway under the bed and picked it up.
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. But hearing each other is even better. Letters aren’t any good at all. You can pick them up off the floor, but you shouldn’t bother because they’re nothing. They’re the worst. Written words are conduits for pain. Sorry I’m not a good writer.
The season changed, honey. It changed on you, but it got worse, and it’s only going to get worse. You think you have nothing now, but what you have now will feel like a fortune in ten years’ time. And what you have in ten years’ time will feel like a fortune compared to what you will have in twenty years’ time. And on and on, grayer and colder, until you die, gray and cold once and for all. There is nothing, Lucy. Nothing but decades of cold and gray, no matter if you’re patient, no matter how many poppy boxes you make to light the day. It’s gray and cold where I am too, but it won’t be when you’re where I am. Come to where I am, Lucy. Come to see me and hear my voice. Come to hear Lacie. Don’t wait for the season to turn darker. Take charge and change it yourself.
I miss you so much, and I love you more than you know. I would do anything to take away your pain and make the world bright for you but I can’t, no matter how patient you are. But I can make it better where I am. Come where I am. Where we are.
Please Lucy
All my love,
Dad
I knew the whole thing was wrong from the beginning, Danny. I really did. But I didn’t want to know. And right then, I wanted to know less than ever.
That’s why I folded the letter and put it on the floor by the bed. Then I found a pen and tore an endsheet from a book. I wrote,
Dear Dad,
I have to know for sure it’s you.
Love, Lucy
I placed it on top of my dad’s letter, on the floor by the bed. Then I went to the other side of the room because even though I was excited, I was afraid too. I turned off the light, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The room was so dark. But after a while, a little bit of light filtered through the spaces between the curtains, and it was enough to see that there was nothing. So I waited some more.
And more.
And more.
I was heartbroken and scared and so, so, so tired. I started to drift off…
And then under the bed, I saw something move.
Solid darkness, overlaid with the dimmest light I’ve ever seen, so dim it might not even have been light. It slid out, slow and calm like oil, and took my letter.
I held my breath and waited yet again, but not for long.
Under the bed, it shifted weirdly and took form. Even though it was still dimmer than dim, I recognized it immediately: my dad. But my dad as he’d been in the pictures I printed: twenty years younger than when he died, unmoving smile pasted on his flickering face, eyes dark and smeary because the photo resolution was so poor. An old photo expanded to human size, pasted on a monster of solid darkness.
It crawled forward until that frozen, smeary, dimmer-than-dim face seemed about to emerge from under the bed. Then it reached for me, and reached and reached and reached, solid-shadow arm with its dim glimmering coat of my dad stretching all the way across the room to where I sat in the corner, right by the light switch.
I turned it on.
The arm retracted, rolling back like a New Year’s party favor. Underneath the frozen, shimmering mask of my father, its real face dipped and curled into an inhuman and nearly incomprehensible grimace. I understood that expression, somehow: It was hungry. So hungry, and so, so furious that it would not get to eat.
The dim glimmer-mask shifted, twisting and stretching into something hideous, and then it was gone.
But the letter remained.
I stood up and went. Out of the room, out of the house, out of the neighborhood, out of the town.
I waited two days, then called Mrs. Hernandez, who came and took me home. When I checked, the letter was on the floor, half-tucked under the bed. Even with sunlight spilling through the windows, even with Mrs. Hernandez beside me, I was so scared I cried. But I still picked it up.
I don’t know what I was hoping for, but it wasn’t what I got:
Dear Lucy,
Phone calls are always good. I love hearing your voice. But letters are always good, too. You can pull out a letter anytime and read it. So I wrote you this letter. Sorry I’m not a good writer.
Even when things change, they don’t. Seasons change, but no matter how patient you are they will make you sad. You have no good seasons left. No brightness will change this, because any brightness you find will be gray and cold. You will forget how it feels to be warm, even at Midnight Mass in the tenth pew in the last seat on the left and even in the summer with your flower boxes and your poppies to make things seem bright. People change, but they stay the same in the important ways and the bad ways and they never get better, they just better at hurting you because they don’t really want to change. You will never change because you don’t have anything and you don’t know how to have anything that isn’t nothing. By the end of the third quarter we’re all pretty soggy but you’re barely out of the first and so soggy you already fell apart. This letter will change, but it will never change because you are you.
There are no letters in hell and no voices where I am there is nothing where I am but cold and gray. This is where you are coming. This is where I am. This is where you already are so come where I can always hear your voice.
All my love,
Dad
I knew I needed to burn that letter. But I couldn’t because once upon a time, my dad had written it for me, and it was the only thing on earth that made me feel loved. So I asked Mrs. Hernandez to take it for me. I guess I thought getting it out of the house would decontaminate it. Change it back to what it had been. To what I needed it to be.
Mrs. Hernandez agreed.
Three days later, she texted me: Why did you keep this from me?
I asked what she meant.
I’m so hurt right now, Lucy. Kayla wrote this letter to me. It’s for me. Why did you keep it?
I understood then. And for the first time in an eon, I felt like I could breathe.
I answered, I’m so sorry. I just miss her so much.
That was three weeks ago. Last night, Mrs. Hernandez shared all of Kayla’s pictures again. She’s moving faster than I thought she would. And somehow, I don’t think she’ll ask that thing for proof like I did.
There’s a diseased relief in knowing that I lost my dad’s real letter years ago, probably before our wedding. Because whatever I found in the hotel room—whatever I passed on to Mrs. Hernandez—wasn’t Dad’s letter.
Which means it was never mine.
Sometimes, that makes me feel at peace. But mostly, it makes me want to die.
It’s been such a long winter. I hope the season changes soon. I’ve been so patient, and I’m holding on.
But barely, Danny.
Just barely.
Dear Elinor
submitted by Dopabeane to nosleep [link] [comments]

Aren't some bets just free money?

So I've recently stumbled upon political betting, especially involving the upcoming election, and I'm wondering if some of these bets are just free money (hear me out). I've placed some small bets mostly on football games for fun, but haven't really dived deep into the world of betting.
Right now on several betting sites I've checked, the odds on a bet for a Democrat party win in California in the November election are -1500, meaning for every $1 you put in, you receive $0.07, or 7 cents, if your bet is correct. To most people including me, it seems almost improbable that California isn't a Democrat win, so wouldn't this be free money? Also, if this is free money, why does the bet even exist; who can make money betting the other side? I know there's "aLwAyS a ChAnCe" for the other scenario to happen (Republican win) but it's simply not likely. BTW, I'm aware of betting sites' rollover bonus "scams" or whatever, but no way they would run wildly unprofitable bets like this just to try to trick a few people out of some rollover money... right?
TLDR Version: Why shouldn't I just bet my entire 401k on Democrat win in California? Also, who is footing the bill if I win this extremely obvious bet? There's no way there's enough liquidity provided from people who bet Republican win instead... right??
submitted by harrisonrt to NoStupidQuestions [link] [comments]

Boli Bolingoli broke quarantine rules to go to Spain

Canny post the article cause it's the Scum so I'll post the text here;

CELTIC ace Boli Bolingoli is under investigation by raging club chiefs after sneaking off on holiday to Spain in defiance of strict Covid-19 quarantine rules.
Bolingoli, 25, didn’t tell Hoops bosses he’d been to the high-risk country, failed to isolate when he returned — then played in Sunday’s game against Kilmarnock.
The defender - who has since tested negative for the virus - said: “I have made a huge mistake. I want to apologise to my Manager, my team mates, the supporters, everyone at Celtic and so many others for letting them down so badly.
“I am guilty of a major error of judgement. I know what I did was wrong and I know that I must now deal with the consequences.”
He came on as a sub in the 87th minute of Sunday’s draw away against Kilmarnock. This could have seen him potentially infecting the Killie players and staff.
After learning of the trip raging Celtic bosses hauled him in for a heated meeting at Parkhead today.
Celtic chiefs were said to be furious when they found out about Bolingoli’s blunder.
The club has now launched an internal probe.
A spokesman said: “Celtic Football Club has taken its response to Covid-19 extremely seriously and we are pleased that, to date, we have recorded no positive tests.
“Our staff have given so much in this area, working tirelessly to ensure that all players and other club personnel are safe, fully aware of their own responsibilities and familiar with all guidance and protocols.
“Safety must always be our priority.
“Clearly, a full investigation will now take place and the Club will take all appropriate action.
“Subsequent to the player’s return he has recorded two negative tests in the past week.”
It’s understood the player immediately held his hands up to the error which is also sure to have further enraged Nicola Sturgeon.
Last week she blasted eight Aberdeen stars who breached the lockdown rules and visited a boozer on August 1.
They went to the Soul bar which was later linked to the city’s spike in coronavirus cases.
The players are all now self-isolating after two tested positive for Covid-19.
The First Minister said: “They blatantly broke the rules that had been agreed between the SFA, the SPFL, and the Scottish Government, which, to put it mildly, is completely unacceptable.
“Football has been given the go-ahead on the strict condition that clubs and players abide by the guidance that has been agreed.”
And she also hinted that a further breach could see her pull the plug the return of Scottish footie.
She said: “They put at risk the return of the professional game. To say this incident is deeply regrettable is an understatement.
“I’m pretty furious about this situation, because it shouldn’t have happened. If that guidance is not going to be adhered to then all bets are off.”
The Dons’ clash with St Johnstone in Perth on Saturday was postponed to avoid the virus potentially being spread to the city.
Lockdown measures have already been reintroduced in Aberdeen as the number of cases in the area grew.
Bolingoli’s gaffe comes just a week after Celtic carpeted striker Leigh Griffiths for breaching social distancing rules after throwing a party for his girlfriend.
But his manager Neil Lennon later said: “I’m not convinced it’s a big issue.”
Bolingoli joined the Hoops from Rapid Vienna in July 2019.
He made 28 appearances for the club last season.
Sunday was his first run out of the new term.
submitted by DodgyHoagie to ScottishFootball [link] [comments]

Relegated Players: Cheaper Transfer Options?

This post has nothing to do with various transfer rumours floating about, it's just a fun exercise in analysing players who could be available at knockdown prices from the 3 relegated clubs in the PL, with a couple from elsewhere in Europe. Let me know your thoughts on any of the below or any other options I chose not to discuss and how they might or might not fit into our squad.
Norwich City
Norwich earned plaudits after gaining promotion with a team containing a few promising academy products. If those young players choose to continue their development at Norwich and they can keep the core of their team together they could do what Burnley have done in recent seasons by coming straight back up and securing some form of stability for a few seasons.
Watford
After reaching an FA Cup Final last season, only to be demolished 6-0 by Man City, Watford seem to have been scarred by the experience. An 8-0 loss at the Etihad in September was followed up by a 4-0 loss which set them up for relegation. A club with trigger happy owners, they have gone through 6 permanent managers during their 5 season stay in the Premier League.
Bournemouth
After failing to fix their defensive frailties, Bournemouth have instead blamed their relegation on Hawkeye not working in Sheffield United vs Aston Villa. Eddie Howe has earned plaudits for taking the club from League Two to the Premier League and surviving for 5 seasons with a smaller club with a small stadium and limited resources. Bournemouth have played some good football and earned some great results during their time in the PL, putting up the best fight to beat the drop post-lockdown of the 3 relegated clubs.
Other players from relegated clubs in Europe
submitted by MindlessTransmission to reddevils [link] [comments]

Notes and Highlights of Kentucky Governor Andy Beshear’s Live Update September 22, 2020

Notes and Highlights of Kentucky Governor Andy Beshear’s Live Update September 22, 2020
Notes by mr_tyler_durden and Daily Update Team
Register for your Absentee Ballot here!
Watch here:
Headlines
Full Notes
QUESTIONS
(continued in stickied comment)
submitted by mr_tyler_durden to Coronavirus_KY [link] [comments]

The truth behind Puskás Akadémia FC - How Hungarian PM Viktor Orbán stole a legend, built a stadium in his backyard and guided his team to Europe

The 2019/2020 season of the Hungary’s National Football League (NB1) – being one of the first leagues to restart play - came to an end on 27 June. If a casual observer (for whatever reason) decides to check out the final standings, he would be not surprised at the first two positions: record-champion Ferencváros defended their title, while regional powerhouse Fehérvár (Videoton) came in second. However, the third place team, Puskás Akadémia FC might seem unusual and one could think that there is a story behind that. Is there a team named after Ferenc Puskás? Did some academy youths make an incredible run for the Europa League qualification? Well, the observer is right, there is a story behind all this, but it’s absolutely not a fun story. It’s a story about how one powerful man’s obsession with football stole a legend, misused state funds and killed the spirit of Hungarian football. (Warning: this is a long story, feel free to scroll down for a tl;dr. Also, I strongly advise checking out the links, those images are worth seeing).
Naturally, political influence in football has been present ever since the dawn of the sport and we know of numerous state leaders who felt confident enough to use their influence to ensure the successful development of their favored clubs – Caucescu’s FC Olt Scornicesti and Erdogan’s Basaksehir are well-known examples of such attempts. However, I fear that very few of the readers are aware of the fact that Puskás Akadémia FC is nothing but Hungarian PM Viktor Orbán’s grandiose project for establishing his hometown’s club as one of the country’s top teams. Considering that Orbán managed to achieve this goal using state funds in an EU member democracy in the 2000s, one might even say that it might be one of the most impressive attempts of cheating your way through Football Manager in real life. Now that Puskás Akadémia FC escaped the desolate football scene of Hungary and is getting ready for the European takeover, I feel that it’s high time to tell its true story.

Part 1: Part time striker, part time PM

Our story begins in 1999 when the 36-year-old striker Viktor Orbán (recently elected as the country’s Prime Minister) was signed by the sixth-tier side of Felcsút FC residing in rural Fejér County. It might sound surprising that an active politician would consider such a side job, but given that Orbán has been playing competitive low-level football throughout his whole life and has always been known as a keen football enthusiast, people seemed to be okay with his choice for a hobby. Orbán spent most of his childhood in the village of Felcsút (population: 1,800), so it seemed only natural that he would join the team after one of his old-time acquaintances became team president there.
Orbán’s arrival to the club seemed to work like a charm as Felcsút FC immediately earned a promotion to the fifth league. The Prime Minister’s busy program did not allow him to attend every training session and game but Orbán did make an effort to contribute as much as possible on the field – there is a report of a government meeting being postponed as Orbán was unavailable due to attending Felcsút FC’s spring training camp. The 2001/2002 season brought another breakthrough for the side as Felcsút was promoted to the national level of the football pyramid after being crowned the champion of Fejér County. Sadly enough for Orbán, he suffered a defeat on another pitch – his party lost the 2002 election and Orbán was forced to move to an opposition role.
No matter what happened on the political playing field, Orbán would not abandon his club. Just before the 2002 elections, Felcsút was surprisingly appointed as one of the regional youth development centers by the Hungarian FA. Orbán continued contributing on the field as well (he had more spare time after all) but his off-the-field efforts provided much more value for the team as he used his political influence to convince right-wing businessmen that they should definitely get sponsorship deals done with the fourth-division village team.
Club management was able to transform the influx of funds into on-field success: Felcsút FC was promoted to the third division in 2004 and achieved promotion to the second division in 2005. Although these new horizons required a skill level that an aging ex-PM is not likely to possess, Orbán regularly played as a late game sub and even appeared in cup games against actual professional opponents. The now-42-year old Orbán did not want to face the challenge of the second division, so he retired in 2005 – but this did not stop him from temping as an assistant coach when the head coach was sacked in the middle of the 2005-2006 season.
Success on the playing field did not translate to political success: Orbán lost the elections once again in 2006. However, this was only a temporary loss: the ruling party committed blunder after blunder and by early 2007 it became absolutely obvious that Orbán would be able return to power in 2010. Now confident in his political future, Orbán opted for the acceleration of football development in Felcsút – by late 2007 he took over the presidency of the club to take matters in his own hands. Sponsors seeking to gain favor with the soon-to-be PM were swarming Felcsút FC, so the club was able to stand very strong in an era where financial stability was a very rare sight in the Hungarian football scene, accumulating three medals (but no promotion) between 2007 and 2009.
On the other hand, Orbán realized the value of youth development as well, and started a local foundation for this purpose back in 2004 that gathered funds for the establishment a boarding school-like football academy. The academy opened its doors in September 2006 (only the second of such institutions in the country) and Orbán immediately took upon the challenge of finding an appropriate name for the academy.
He went on to visit the now very sick Ferenc Puskás in the hospital to discuss using his name, but as Puskás’ medical situation was deteriorating rapidly, communication attempts were futile. Luckily enough Puskás’ wife (and soon to be widow) was able to act on his incapable husband’s behalf and approved the naming deal in a contract. According to the statement, naming rights were granted without compensation, as “Puskás would have certainly loved what’s happening down in Felcsút”. However, there was much more to the contract: Puskás’ trademark was handed to a sports journalist friend of Orbán (György Szöllősi, also acting communications director of the academy) who promised a hefty annual return for the family (and also a 45% share of the revenue for himself). Ferenc Puskás eventually died on 17 November 2006 and on 26 November 2006 the football academy was named after him: Puskás Academy was born.
Orbán shared his vision of the whole organization after the opening ceremony: “It’s unreasonable to think that Felcsút should have a team in the top division. We should not flatter ourselves, our players and our supporters with this dream. Our long term ambition is the creation of a stable second division team that excels in youth development and provides opportunity for the talents of the future.” Let’s leave that there.

Part 2: No stadium left behind

Orbán became PM once again in April 2010 after a landslide victory that pretty much granted him unlimited power. He chased lots of political agendas but one of his policies was rock solid: he would revive sports (and especially football) that was left to bleed out by the previous governments. The football situation in 2010 was quite dire: while the national team has actually made some progress in the recent years and has reached the 42nd position in the world rankings, football infrastructure was in a catastrophic state. Teams were playing in rusty stadiums built in the communist era, club finances were a mess, youth teams couldn’t find training grounds and the league was plagued by violent fan groups and lackluster attendance figures (3100 average spectators per game in the 2009/2010 season).
Orbán – aided by the FA backed by business actors very interested in making him happy – saw the future in the total rebuild of the football infrastructure. Vast amounts of state development funds were invested into the football construction industry that warmly welcomed corruption, cost escalation and shady procurement deals. In the end, money triumphed: over the last decade, new stadiums sprung out from nothing all over the country, dozens of new academies opened and pitches for youth development appeared on practically every corner. The final piece of the stadium renovation program was the completion of the new national stadium, Puskás Aréna in 2019 (estimated cost: 575 million EUR). Orbán commemorated this historic moment with a celebratory video on his social media that features a majestic shot of Orbán modestly kicking a CGI ball from his office to the new stadium.
Obviously, Orbán understood that infrastructure alone won’t suffice. He believed in the idea that successful clubs are the cornerstone of a strong national side as these clubs would compete in a high quality national league (and in international tournaments) that would require a constant influx of youth players developed by the clubs themselves. However, Orbán was not really keen on sharing the state’s infinite wealth with private club owners who failed to invest in their clubs between 2002 and 2010. The club ownership takeover was not that challenging as previous owners were usually happy to cut their losses, and soon enough most clubs came under Orbán’s influence. Some clubs were integrated deep into Orbán’s reach (Ferencváros and MTK Budapest club presidents are high ranking officials of Orbán’s party) while in other cases, indirect control was deemed sufficient (Diósgyőri VTK was purchased by a businessman as an attempt to display loyalty to Orbán).
Pouring taxpayer money into infrastructure (stadium) projects is relatively easy: after all, we are basically talking about overpriced government construction projects, there’s nothing new there. On the other hand, allocating funds to clubs that should be operating on a competitive market is certainly a tougher nut to crack. The obvious solutions were implemented: the state media massively overpaid for broadcasting rights and the national sports betting agency also pays a hefty sum to the FA, allowing for a redistribution of considerable amounts. However, given that the income side of Hungarian clubs was basically non-existent (match day income is negligible, the failed youth development system does not sell players), an even more radical solution was desperately needed. Also, there was definite interest in the development of a tool that would allow for differentiation between clubs (as in the few remaining non-government affiliated clubs should not receive extra money).
The solution came in 2011: the so-called TAO (“társasági adó” = corporate tax) system was introduced, granting significant tax deductions for companies if they offered a portion of their profits to sports clubs – however, in theory, funds acquired through TAO can be only used for youth development and infrastructure purposes. Soon enough, it became apparent that state authorities were not exactly interested in the enforcement of these restrictions, so some very basic creative accounting measures enabled clubs to use this income for anything they wanted to. Companies were naturally keen on cutting their tax burdens and scoring goodwill with the government, so TAO money immediately skyrocketed. Opportunistic party strongmen used their influence to convince local business groups to invest in the local clubs, enabling for the meteoric rise of multiple unknown provincial teams (Mezőkövesd [pop: 16,000], Kisvárda [pop: 16,000], Balmazújváros [pop: 17,000]) into the first division.
Although it’s not the main subject of this piece, I feel inclined to show you the actual results of Orbán’s grandiose football reform. While we do have our beautiful stadiums, we don’t exactly get them filled – league attendance has stagnated around 3000 spectators per game throughout the whole decade. We couldn’t really move forward with our national team either: Hungary lost 10 positions in the FIFA World Rankings throughout Orbán’s ten years. On the other hand, the level of league has somewhat improved – Videoton and Ferencváros reached the Europa League group stage in 2019 and 2020, respectively. Too bad that the Instat-based top team of 2019/2020 Hungarian league consists of 10 foreigners and only 1 Hungarian: the goalkeeper.

Part 3: Small place, big game!

As seen in the previous chapter, Orbán did have a strong interest in the improvement of the football situation Hungary, but we shouldn’t forget that his deepest interest and true loyalty laid in the wellbeing of Felcsút and its academy. Now that Orbán had limitless means to see to the advancement of his beloved club, he got to work immediately. Orbán handed over formal club management duties to his friend / protégé / middleman / businessman Lőrinc Mészáros in 2010, but no questions would ever arise of who is actually calling the shots.
First of all, no club can exist without a proper stadium. Although in 2011 Orbán explicitly stated that “Felcsút does not need a stadium as stadiums belong to cities”, no one was really surprised in 2012 when the construction of the Felcsút stadium was announced. Orbán was generous enough to donate the lands just in front of his summer home in the village for the project, locating the entrance a mere ten meters away from his residence. Construction works for the stunningly aesthetic 3,800-seater arena (in a village of 1,800 people) started in April 2012 and were completed in April 2014, making Felcsút’s arena the second new stadium of Orbán’s gigantic stadium revival program.
The estimated budget of the construction was 120 million EUR (31,500 EUR / seat) was financed by the Puskás Academy who explicitly stated that they did not use government funds for the project. Technically, this statement is absolutely true as the construction was financed through the TAO money offered by the numerous companies looking for tax deduction and Orbán’s goodwill. However, technically, this means that the country’s budget was decreased by 120 million EUR unrealized tax revenue. Naturally, the gargantuan football stadium looks ridiculously out of place in the small village, but there’s really no other way to ensure that your favorite team’s stadium is within 20 seconds of walking distance from your home.
Obviously, a proper club should also have some glorious history. Felcsút was seriously lagging behind on this matter as though Felcsút FC was founded in 1931, it spent its pre-Orbán history in the uninspiring world of the 5th-7th leagues of the country. Luckily enough, Orbán had already secured Puskás’ naming rights and they were not afraid to use it, so Felcsút FC was renamed to Puskás Academy FC in 2009. The stadium name was a little bit problematic as the Hungarian national stadium in Budapest had sadly had the dibs on Puskás’ name, so they had to settle with Puskás’ Spanish nickname, resulting in the inauguration of the Pancho Arena. But why stop here? Orbán’s sports media strongman György Szöllősi acted upon the contract with Puskás’ widow and transferred all Puskás’ personal memorabilia (medals, jerseys, correspondence) to the most suitable place of all: a remote village in which Puskás never even set foot in.
While the off-field issues were getting resolved, Orbán’s attention shifted to another important area: the actual game of football. Although academy players started to graduate from 2008 on, it very soon became painfully obvious that the academy program couldn’t really maintain even a second division side for now. In 2009, Orbán reached an agreement with nearby Videoton’s owner that effectively transformed Felcsút FC into Videoton’s second team under the name of Videoton – Puskás Akadémia FC. The mutually beneficent agreement would allow Videoton to give valuable playing time to squad players while it could also serve as a skipping step for Puskás Academy’s fresh graduates to a first league team. The collaboration resulted in two mid-table finishes and a bronze medal in the second division in the following three seasons that wasn’t really impressive compared to Felcsút FC’s standalone seasons.
It seemed that the mixture of reserve Videoton players and academy youth was simply not enough for promotion, and although Orbán had assured the public multiple times that his Felcsút project was not aiming for the top flight, very telling changes arose after the 2011/2012 season. Felcsút terminated the Videoton cooperation deal and used the rapidly accumulating TAO funds to recruit experienced players for the now independently operating Puskás Academy FC (PAFC). The new directive worked almost too well: PAFC won its division with a 10 point lead in its first standalone year which meant that they would have to appear in the first league prior to the completion of their brand-new Pancho Arena. Too bad that this glorious result had almost nothing to do with the academy - only two players were academy graduates of the side’s regular starting XI.
Orbán did not let himself bothered with the ridiculousness of an academy team with virtually no academy players being promoted to the first division as he stated that “a marathon runner shouldn’t need to explain why the other runners were much slower than him”. Orbán also displayed a rare burst of modesty as he added that “his team’s right place is not in the first league, and they will soon be overtaken by other, better sides”.
The promotion of PAFC to the first division made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move. Supporter groups were united in hatred all along the league and not surprisingly, away fans almost always outnumbered the home side at PAFC’s temporary home at Videoton’s Sóstói Stadium (demolished and rebuilt in its full glory since then). One of the teams, however, possessed an extraordinary degree of anger against PAFC: supporters of Budapest Honvéd – the only Hungarian team in which Ferenc Puskás played – felt especially awkward about the transfer of their club legend’s heritage to Felcsút. Tensions spiked at the PAFC – Honvéd game when home security forced Honvéd supporters to remove the “Puskás” part of their traditional “Puskás – Kispest – Hungary” banner – the team answered the insult with style as they secured a 4-0 victory supported by fans chanting “you can’t buy legends”.
Despite Orbán’s prognosis, other better sides did not rush to overtake his team, so PAFC, now residing in their brand new Pancho Arena, came through with a 14th and a 10th place in their first two seasons. Naturally, conspiracy theories began to formulate, speculating that government-friendly owners would certainly not be motivated to give their best against PAFC. However, as the league size was reduced to 12 for the 2015/2016 season, PAFC found themselves in a dire situation just before the final round: they needed a win and needed rival Vasas to lose against MTK in order to avoid relegation. PAFC’s draw seemed to be unlucky as they faced their arch-enemy Honvéd at home, but Honvéd displayed an absolute lackluster effort – fueling conspiracy theories – and lost the fixture 2 to 1 against a home side featuring four academy players. Vasas, however, did not disappoint, their 2-0 victory resulted in PAFC’s elimination and a very relaxed sigh all over the football community.
PAFC’s relegation seemed to be in accordance with Orbán’s 2013 statement, so public opinion supposed for a while that Orbán’s project came to a halting point and the Academy would go on to actually field academy players in the second division (especially as rostering foreign players was prohibited in the lower leagues). However, if you have read through this point, you know better than to expect Orbán to retreat – obviously, PAFC came back with a bang. With a ballsy move, PAFC didn’t even sell their foreign players, they just loaned them across the league, promising them that they would be able to return next year to the newly promoted team. The promise was kept as PAFC went into another shopping spree of experienced players (easily convincing lots of them to choose the second division instead of the first) and easily won the second league.
Orbán – now aware of his negligence – opted for the doubling the team’s budget, making PAFC the third most well-founded club in the whole country (only coming short to his friend’s Videoton and his party minion’s Ferencváros). With an actual yearly influx from TAO money in the ballpark of 30-40 million EUR, PAFC management had to really work wonders in creative accounting in order to make their money look somewhat legitimate. The books were now full of ridiculous items like:
Naturally, in the country of no consequences, absolutely nothing happened: PAFC went on with its spending and signed 35 foreigners between 2017 and 2020. They did so because they could not hope to field a winning team in the first league consisting of academy players, despite the fact that Puskás Academy has been literally drowning in money since 2007. This seems to somewhat contradict Orbán’s 2013 promise, stating that “Puskás Academy will graduate two or three players to major European leagues each year”. To be fair, there have been players who managed to emerge to Europe (well, exactly two of them: Roland Sallai plays at Freiburg, László Kleinheisler played at Werder Bremen) but most academy graduates don’t even have the slightest the chance to make their own academy’s pro team as it’s full of foreigners and more experienced players drawn for other teams’ programs.
Despite their unlimited funding, PAFC could not put up a top-tier performance in their first two years back in the first division, finishing 6th and 7th in the 12-team league. Many speculated that the lack of support, motivation and even a clear team mission did not allow for chemistry to develop within the multinational and multi-generational locker room. Consistency was also a rare sight on the coaching side: club management was absolutely impatient with coaches who were very easily released after a single bad spell and there were talks of on-field micromanagement request coming from as high as Orbán.
Even so, their breakthrough came dangerously close in 2018 as PAFC performed consistently well in the cup fixtures and managed to reach the final. Their opponent, Újpest played an incredibly fierce game and after a 2-2 draw, they managed to defeat PAFC in the shootout. Football fans sighed in relief throughout the country as ecstatic Újpest supporters verbally teased a visibly upset Orbán in his VIP lounge about his loss.
Obviously, we could only delay the inevitable. While this year’s PAFC side seemed to be more consistent than its predecessors, it seemed that they won’t be able to get close to the podium - they were far behind the obvious league winner duo of Ferencváros and Videoton and were trailing third-place Mezőkövesd 6 points just before the pandemic break. However, both Mezőkövesd and PAFC’s close rivals DVTK and Honvéd fall flat after the restart while PAFC was able to maintain its good form due to its quality roster depth. PAFC overtook Mezőkövesd after the second-to-last round as Mezőkövesd lost to the later relegated Debrecen side. (Mezőkövesd coach Attila Kuttor was fined harshly because of his post-game comments on how the FA wants PAFC to finish third.)
PAFC faced Honvéd in the last round once again, and as Honvéd came up with its usual lackluster effort, PAFC secured an effortless win, confidently claiming the third place. PAFC celebrated their success in a nearly empty stadium, however neither Orbán, nor Mészáros (club owner, Orbán’s protégé, now 4th richest man of Hungary) seemed to worry about that. While Orbán high-fived with his peers in the VIP lounge, Mészáros was given the opportunity to award the bronze medals (and for some reason, a trophy) to the players dressed up in the incredibly cringe worthy T-shirts that say “Small place, big game!”. Big game, indeed: in the 2019/2020 season, foreign players’ share of the teams playing time was 43.6% while academy graduates contributed only 17.9%.
On Sunday evening, less than 24 hours after PAFC’s glorious success, György Szöllősi, now editor-in-chief of Hungary’s only sports newspaper (purchased by Orbán’s affiliates a few years back) published an editorial on the site, stating that “the soccer rebuild in Felcsút became the motor and symbol of the revitalization of sport throughout the whole country”. Well, Szöllősi is exactly right: Felcsút did became a symbol, but a symbol of something entirely different. Felcsút became a symbol of corruption, inefficiency, lies and the colossal waste of money. But, hey, at least we know now: you only need to spend 200 million EUR (total budget of PAFC and its academy in the 2011-2020 period) if you want to have a Europa League team in your backyard. Good to know!

Epilogue: What's in the future?

As there is no foreseeable chance for political change to happen Hungary (Orbán effortlessly secured qualified majority in 2014 and 2018, and is projected to do so in 2022 as well), PAFC’s future seems to be as bright as it gets. Although consensus opinion now seems to assume that Orbán does not intend to interfere with the Ferencváros – Videoton hegemony, we can never be really sure about the exact limits of his greed. One could also argue that entering the European theater serves as a prime opportunity for making splashy transfers who could be the cornerstones of a side challenging the league title.
However, as all political systems are deemed to fall, eventually Orbán’s regime will come apart. Whoever will take upon the helm after Orbán, they will certainly begin with cutting back on the one item on Orbán’s agenda that never had popular support: limitless football spending. Puskás Academy, having next to zero market revenue, will not be able to survive without the state’s life support, so the club will fold very shortly. The abandoned, rotting stadium in Felcsút will serve as a memento of a powerful man who could not understand the true spirit of football.
But let’s get back to present day, as we have more pressing issues coming up soon: PAFC will play their first European match in the First qualifying round of the Europa League on 27 August. We don’t have a date for the draw yet, but soon enough, a team unaware of the whole situation will be selected to face the beast. I hope that maybe one of their players does some research and maybe reads this very article for inspiration. I hope that the supporters of this club get in touch with Honvéd fans who would be eager to provide them with some tips on appropriate chants. I hope that other teams gets drawn as the home team so Orbán wouldn’t get the pleasure of walking to his stadium for an international match. But most importantly, I very much hope that this team obliterates PAFC and wipes them off the face of the earth. 5-0 will suffice, thank you.
And if this team fails to do that, we don’t have to worry yet. Due to our shitty league coefficient, PAFC would need to win four fixtures in a row. And that – if there’s any justice in this world – is a thing that can’t, that won’t happen. Ball don’t lie – if I may say.
TL,DR
Hungarian PM Viktor Orbán redirected some 200 million EUR of taxpayer money over 10 years to fuel his ambition of raising a competitive football team in his hometown of 1,800 people. He built a 3,800-seater stadium in his backyard, expropriated football legend Ferenc Puskás’ trademarks and heritage and built up a football league where almost all clubs are owned by his trustees. His team, Puskás Akadémia FC was originally intended to be a development ground for youth players graduating from Orbán’s football academy, but eventually the team became more and more result-orianted. Finally, a roster full of foreign and non-academy players came through and finished third in the league, releasing this abomination of a team to the European football theatre. Please, knock them out asap!
submitted by pogacsa_is_life to soccer [link] [comments]

My unpopular opinion on COVID-19

I have done my best to respect the diverse opinions regarding COVID-19 over these past few months, but I have these nagging questions about it... A friend posted this and it brilliantly sums up my train of thought:
Please just take politics out of it and read this with an open mind using common sense.
Anyone out there who can tell me what our end game is with the covid 19?
What is the magic formula that is going to allow us to sound the all clear?
Is it zero cases?
The only way that will happen is if we just stop testing and stop reporting.
Is it a vaccine?
It took 25 years for a chicken pox vaccine to be developed.
The smallpox inoculation was discovered in 1796 the last known natural case was in 1977.
We have a flu vaccine that is only 40 to 60% effective and less than half of the UK population choose to get one, and roughly 20,000 British will die of the flu or flu complications.
Oh, you'll mandate it, like other vaccines are mandated in order to attend school, travel to some foreign countries, etc.
We already have a growing number of anti vaxxers refusing proven, tested, well known vaccines that have been administered for decades but aren’t necessarily safe!
Do you really think people will flock to get a fast tracked, quickly tested vaccine, whose long term side effects and overall efficacy are anyone's best guess?
How long are we going to cancel and postpone and reconsider??
What if October's numbers are the same as August's?
You moved football to summer?
What if next March is worse than this one was?
When do we decide quality of life outweighs the risks?
I understand Covid can be deadly or very dangerous for SOME people, but so are peanuts, strawberries, and so is shellfish.
We take risks multiple times a day without a second thought.
We know driving a car can be dangerous, we don't leave it in the garage.
We know the dangers of smoking, drinking and eating fried foods, we do it anyway.
We speed, we don't fasten our seatbelts.
Is hugging Gran really more dangerous than rush hour on the motorway?
Is going out with friends after work more risky than 4 day old petrol station sushi?
Or operating a chainsaw?
When and how did we so quickly lose our free will?
Is there a waiver somewhere I can sign that says, "I understand the risks, but I choose a life with Hugs and Smiles, and the Community Fair and Concerts and Parties."
I understand that there is a minuscule possibility I could die, but I will most likely end up feeling like crap for a few days.
I understand I could possibly pass it to someone else, if I'm not careful, but I can pass any virus onto someone else.
I'm struggling to see where or how this ends.
We either get busy living or we get busy dying.
When God decides it's your time, you don't get any mulligans, so I guess I would rather spend my time enjoying it and living in the moment and not worrying about what ifs and maybes, and I bet I'm not the only one.
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I’ve been playing Super Bowl party betting games for years, and I’d like to share some of my favorites. Before we get to the list, remember: Communication is key. Make sure to inform your guests in advance about what betting games you will offer (and the stakes) at your party, so that they will arrive prepared. Give your guests plenty of reasons to cheer with our picks for the top five football party games. Football Bingo. Football bingo is a great activity for all ages. While guests watch the game and commercials, they can mark off the different images they see on the screen on their bingo cards. The first one to get five across, vertically, or ... That’s the purpose of Super Bowl party games – to add even more fun to an already fun night! I’ve put together all of the best Super Bowl party games I could find on the internet including printable games, active games, betting games, and even games you can play during the commercials. They’d go great with any of these Super Bowl party ... Team up for these affordable and easy-to-make party activities for your most memorable Super Bowl party yet. (They'll go great with all of your football decorations!) Here, in the hopes that we can help make your hosting that much easier and more fun, we've compiled the best Super Bowl party games and activities that'll delight your guests. Super Bowl party games; Super Bowl drinking games; Best betting games for Super Bowl parties. Having a few bucks on the line makes everything more interesting. Even if you hate football, pulling for your bets to pay off is enough reason to pay attention to what’s happening on or off the field. Super Bowl betting games can start as small as ...

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How to pick and predict virtual football games - YouTube

Want to take your chances and make money betting on football? Sports Betting is now legal in New York State. Syracuse.com’s Brent Axe went to the Lounge at C... For More Information Mail Us: [email protected] Fully New BETTING SOFTWARE PREDICTION 2020 For Soccer Football 100% WORKING http://www.thesportsgeek.com/go/sportsinsights/ - Use the BetLabs software yourself to create NFL betting systems and win more money! I sent out a survey to ... Type "printable football grid" into a search engine to find one. Step 2: Label with team names When the big game's teams are determined, write their names on the poster board, one above the top of ... Visit my site for comprehensive breakdowns of all of the bets and strategies you see. Also read the latest football betting blog articles: www.topfootballbet...

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