The Voice 4-6
Let me just say this on the record. The Voice has no dispute with Vitor Baia, the European Goalkeeper of the Year in 2004, with 80 caps for Portugal and a Champions League winner under Jose Mourinho. Yes - we had our differences, sportsmen do, but I would like to think that when we meet again we can bury the hatchet. I still do have a bitter ongoing dispute with Ken Blackburn about my unreturned subs from the Pike and Musket Skittles Team, but I think the time has come for Vitor and I to bury the hatchet. So here we go – the GPSFA now has a world exclusive.
Dear Vitor, I am sorry I insulted your driving skills, your ability to manage your money wisely and had I known how much your wife’s coat actually cost I would not have accelerated when I did. And I should not have insulted her coat either. I appreciate the phrase ‘… is that real rat?’ sounds less funny in Portuguese.
Yours faithfully, The Voice of Football / A voz do futebol (as I am known in Porto)
It is September 2004 and I have just started working in Porto. The city is buzzing as Porto are the current European Champions. I am working in the Middle School and am teaching Vitor’s son. We are working on simple percentages.
‘Diego – check again. You’ve put down 500 000 Euros! No car costs that much.’
‘No – it is correct, Mr. Andrew. It is our new car. 500 000 Euros. My dad tells me.’
‘Diego, don’t be ridiculous. No car costs that much. Now, please change the price.’
There was a fair bit of grumbling and some Portuguese whisperings, but I thought no more about it.
It’s never easy being a coach and it’s even harder when you don’t have much skill either. However, recalling my coaching course in Gloucester, with great confidence I called over Marcello and explained that his goalkeeping positioning was at fault. He needed to cover the inside post and get his angles right for the far post. I shoved him to one side and the squad lined up to takes shots from the edge of the box. With amazing luck, all was going to plan. Each shot to the back stick was either saved by me or drifted harmlessly wide. I was growing in confidence and was quite enjoying the sudden appearance of Vitor to watch proceedings. Maybe he’d watch and learn. Perhaps he’d recommend me to Jose himself!
Vitor and I nodded at each other. Granted he had played at a higher level of sport, but I question whether Vitor would have lasted long in the brutal semi-final against Spartans RFC that saw Saintbridge (Old Centralians) through to the 1992 final of the Gloucester Combination 3rd Team Cup. Anyway, let’s not split hairs. We were both competitors. Diego stepped up. He was a fair player and he hit a screamer that flew past my outstretched arm. I admit I held the pose a little too long, admiring my great skills and thinking how good I would now be in the U13s. The ball hit the post at pace and then took an unexpectedly brutal path - smacking into my face and making my nose bleed profusely before finally trickling over the line. I’m sure there was a mumbled apology and possibly a laugh from behind me, but I was too busy to notice as I collected in the cones. It’s all about being professional.
The very next day our valiant Nissan Primera finally died outside Norte Shopping Centre. The car was towed away by the police before being found to have been illegally imported. This was technically true and the owner - Mrs. Voice – was now facing a court appearance and a hefty fine. It was tense at the Delegacia de Policia. The advice I had been given (admittedly by a bloke from the Font y Luz) about avoiding import tax was clearly not legally accurate. However, after a stern lecture all was smiles. We downsized and bought a modest Renault Twingo. It makes a Mini look like a limousine and it lacks power steering. Well, ours did. But for 500 Euros I could cope.
All went well with the Twingo until March. It rains a lot in the north of Portugal and the main road was a little chaotic so I took the short cut along a rough track. It was muddy, wet and far from ideal. But it was safe enough so long as there wasn’t a car coming the other way.
‘Dad! Dad! Look – it’s Vitor Baia’s car. It was on the internet. It’s an Aston Martin. It’s handmade and cost 500 000 Euros – but they are so rare it’s now worth even more.’
‘Yes – no need to go on,’ I snapped at my son Mike. ‘It’s just a car.’
‘Dad – if our car is worth 500 Euros and the Aston Martin is 500 000 then his car is worth a hundred times more than ours,’ my daughter Caity disloyally calculated.
It became clear that Vitor either hadn’t seen us as he was not going to give way. We both came to a halt.
A James Bond Aston Martin. Have you ever seen one on the road? It looked spectacular. It oozed class. It really was a marvel of modern engineering. Vitor wound down the window and glared. We inched past each other and as we drew level the window of the back seat eased down to reveal Mrs. Baia. Mrs. Baia had just been to the gym and was wearing a particularly skin tight lycra combination that really did look very attractive under her fur. The next few seconds are a little hazy; a lot happened in a short time and I have to rely on my children’s translation as to who said what to whom. However, here are the simple facts. Temporarily looking at Mrs. Baia I got a bit too close to the Aston Martin, causing Vitor to shout a lot, put the car in gear and veer into a large puddle which somehow completely covered his bonnet in sludge. Panic set in and I lurched forward, missing the AM by millimetres and soaking Mrs. Baia and her new fur coat in mud, water and what appeared to be horse manure. There was an exchange of opinions and a lot of cursing. Vitor had better English than I had expected and even I recall him shouting angrily, ‘I see you tomorrow.’
‘Any time, pal. Anytime.’ It wouldn’t be a problem as I was fairly confident Baia was playing Glasgow Rangers at Ibrox and would be flying out with the squad.
We drove along in a tense silence.
‘Actually, dad, the Aston Martin is worth a thousand times more than ours.’ I’m normally a proud father, but on this occasion I wasn’t thrilled at my daughter’s mental dexterity.
There was a little tension the next morning. It is the only time I have been able to check national media for an update on a personal dispute. Handily, O Jogo reported Baia had passed a fitness test and was flying to Scotland as planned.
I managed to keep out of Vitor’s way for a while. Handily footballers play a lot of games and I think that, over time, he calmed down a little. School broke up for the summer and one of the delights of working in a holiday destination is that as soon as school finishes, the golden beaches and glorious ocean are right on your doorstep. After a long day in the surf, we strolled along the promenade at Matosinhos. Ahead of us was a crowd, cheering and waving at a group that was speeding towards us. It was the Baia family on the first and only Segways seen in Portugal.
As Vitor sped past, he began a popular Portuguese curse which was completed by his wife. I shan’t bother to describe her attire, but she did have certain features that are appreciated by the more superficial amongst us. However, she was cut off by her son.
‘Hey, Mr. Andrew! These Segways are really cool. They don’t cost too much. Sell your car and you could buy one..........and have enough change for a drink or two.’
Dear Vitor, I am sorry I insulted your driving skills, your ability to manage your money wisely and had I known how much your wife’s coat actually cost I would not have accelerated when I did. And I should not have insulted her coat either. I appreciate the phrase ‘… is that real rat?’ sounds less funny in Portuguese.
Yours faithfully, The Voice of Football / A voz do futebol (as I am known in Porto)
It is September 2004 and I have just started working in Porto. The city is buzzing as Porto are the current European Champions. I am working in the Middle School and am teaching Vitor’s son. We are working on simple percentages.
‘Diego – check again. You’ve put down 500 000 Euros! No car costs that much.’
‘No – it is correct, Mr. Andrew. It is our new car. 500 000 Euros. My dad tells me.’
‘Diego, don’t be ridiculous. No car costs that much. Now, please change the price.’
There was a fair bit of grumbling and some Portuguese whisperings, but I thought no more about it.
It’s never easy being a coach and it’s even harder when you don’t have much skill either. However, recalling my coaching course in Gloucester, with great confidence I called over Marcello and explained that his goalkeeping positioning was at fault. He needed to cover the inside post and get his angles right for the far post. I shoved him to one side and the squad lined up to takes shots from the edge of the box. With amazing luck, all was going to plan. Each shot to the back stick was either saved by me or drifted harmlessly wide. I was growing in confidence and was quite enjoying the sudden appearance of Vitor to watch proceedings. Maybe he’d watch and learn. Perhaps he’d recommend me to Jose himself!
Vitor and I nodded at each other. Granted he had played at a higher level of sport, but I question whether Vitor would have lasted long in the brutal semi-final against Spartans RFC that saw Saintbridge (Old Centralians) through to the 1992 final of the Gloucester Combination 3rd Team Cup. Anyway, let’s not split hairs. We were both competitors. Diego stepped up. He was a fair player and he hit a screamer that flew past my outstretched arm. I admit I held the pose a little too long, admiring my great skills and thinking how good I would now be in the U13s. The ball hit the post at pace and then took an unexpectedly brutal path - smacking into my face and making my nose bleed profusely before finally trickling over the line. I’m sure there was a mumbled apology and possibly a laugh from behind me, but I was too busy to notice as I collected in the cones. It’s all about being professional.
The very next day our valiant Nissan Primera finally died outside Norte Shopping Centre. The car was towed away by the police before being found to have been illegally imported. This was technically true and the owner - Mrs. Voice – was now facing a court appearance and a hefty fine. It was tense at the Delegacia de Policia. The advice I had been given (admittedly by a bloke from the Font y Luz) about avoiding import tax was clearly not legally accurate. However, after a stern lecture all was smiles. We downsized and bought a modest Renault Twingo. It makes a Mini look like a limousine and it lacks power steering. Well, ours did. But for 500 Euros I could cope.
All went well with the Twingo until March. It rains a lot in the north of Portugal and the main road was a little chaotic so I took the short cut along a rough track. It was muddy, wet and far from ideal. But it was safe enough so long as there wasn’t a car coming the other way.
‘Dad! Dad! Look – it’s Vitor Baia’s car. It was on the internet. It’s an Aston Martin. It’s handmade and cost 500 000 Euros – but they are so rare it’s now worth even more.’
‘Yes – no need to go on,’ I snapped at my son Mike. ‘It’s just a car.’
‘Dad – if our car is worth 500 Euros and the Aston Martin is 500 000 then his car is worth a hundred times more than ours,’ my daughter Caity disloyally calculated.
It became clear that Vitor either hadn’t seen us as he was not going to give way. We both came to a halt.
A James Bond Aston Martin. Have you ever seen one on the road? It looked spectacular. It oozed class. It really was a marvel of modern engineering. Vitor wound down the window and glared. We inched past each other and as we drew level the window of the back seat eased down to reveal Mrs. Baia. Mrs. Baia had just been to the gym and was wearing a particularly skin tight lycra combination that really did look very attractive under her fur. The next few seconds are a little hazy; a lot happened in a short time and I have to rely on my children’s translation as to who said what to whom. However, here are the simple facts. Temporarily looking at Mrs. Baia I got a bit too close to the Aston Martin, causing Vitor to shout a lot, put the car in gear and veer into a large puddle which somehow completely covered his bonnet in sludge. Panic set in and I lurched forward, missing the AM by millimetres and soaking Mrs. Baia and her new fur coat in mud, water and what appeared to be horse manure. There was an exchange of opinions and a lot of cursing. Vitor had better English than I had expected and even I recall him shouting angrily, ‘I see you tomorrow.’
‘Any time, pal. Anytime.’ It wouldn’t be a problem as I was fairly confident Baia was playing Glasgow Rangers at Ibrox and would be flying out with the squad.
We drove along in a tense silence.
‘Actually, dad, the Aston Martin is worth a thousand times more than ours.’ I’m normally a proud father, but on this occasion I wasn’t thrilled at my daughter’s mental dexterity.
There was a little tension the next morning. It is the only time I have been able to check national media for an update on a personal dispute. Handily, O Jogo reported Baia had passed a fitness test and was flying to Scotland as planned.
I managed to keep out of Vitor’s way for a while. Handily footballers play a lot of games and I think that, over time, he calmed down a little. School broke up for the summer and one of the delights of working in a holiday destination is that as soon as school finishes, the golden beaches and glorious ocean are right on your doorstep. After a long day in the surf, we strolled along the promenade at Matosinhos. Ahead of us was a crowd, cheering and waving at a group that was speeding towards us. It was the Baia family on the first and only Segways seen in Portugal.
As Vitor sped past, he began a popular Portuguese curse which was completed by his wife. I shan’t bother to describe her attire, but she did have certain features that are appreciated by the more superficial amongst us. However, she was cut off by her son.
‘Hey, Mr. Andrew! These Segways are really cool. They don’t cost too much. Sell your car and you could buy one..........and have enough change for a drink or two.’
