Chapter 7: Interim Manager
The stunning achievement of a rookie interim manager leading a team predicted to finish bottom of the Premier League to victory was quickly overshadowed by shocking news that broke right after the match.
Rafa Benítez, the defeated Everton manager, announced his resignation at the post-match press conference, citing "irreconcilable differences of opinion" with the club's management.
The football world was stunned by the sudden departure of the Spanish veteran manager, who had completed the pre-season only to resign after just one regular-season game.
Yet, as if they'd been waiting for it, Everton appointed Frank Lampard—sacked by Chelsea and living as a free agent—the very next day as their new manager.
What should have remained an internal Everton affair unexpectedly sparked trouble elsewhere.
Frank Lampard, a Chelsea legend who'd retired as a player, had managed both Championship side Derby County and Premier League giants Chelsea, gaining experience with second-tier and top-flight teams before taking a break.
It was Burnley Football Club's board who'd been quietly reaching out to him.
"Damn it… why now, of all times…"
Helena, with dark circles stretching under her eyes, swore as she scratched out the top name on the list in front of her.
It was a list of managerial candidates compiled after heated debates between the former chairman, the current owner's proxy (herself), and the lone remaining director.
Mike Garlick and John Banaszkiewicz, wanting a manager proven to ensure Premier League survival, had suggested seasoned veterans like the retired Roy Hodgson or the already-retired Neil Warnock.
But Helena had a different view.
"For heaven's sake, have you even looked at our squad? We've got the oldest average age in the Premier League! You think it makes sense to bring back a retired manager to lead a team full of players on the verge of retirement? Are we opening a nursing home or something?!"
As the two men—far closer to retirement than the start of their careers—awkwardly avoided her icy glare, Helena pressed her case firmly.
"We need a manager who can lead this club with a long-term vision. Someone who can rebuild with us even if we get relegated, and aim for promotion again—someone with staying power."
"But avoiding relegation this season—"
Helena cut off John Banaszkiewicz.
"Avoiding relegation isn't the endgame! If we don't rebuild now and somehow stay in the Premier League next season, then what? Will someone magically pour in funds to rebuild for us? The squad will just be a year older! It's better to seize this chance for reform now!"
Having grown up hearing tales of turning around distressed assets at the dinner table and already succeeding in normalizing several failing companies despite her young age, Helena spoke with authority.
Amid a mix of discomfort and unease, Mike Garlick asked gravely,
"Is that as a representative of Cartwright Fund?"
"It's my opinion both as a director of Cartwright Fund and as a director of Burnley Football Club."
With that conviction, she'd barely managed to sway the other two directors. Yet now, tears welled up as she crossed out the top name on their already short list.
"Damn it… let's see… after Frank Lampard… Steven Gerrard? Wayne Rooney? Patrick Vieira? Mikel Arteta? Simone Inzaghi? Xavi? Niko Kovač? These guys are all managing teams right now…"
Helena butchered the names of football's young masterminds and promising managers as she scanned the list.
"From here, maybe more realistic options? They're unemployed, at least. Let's see… Aitor Karanka? Zinedine Zidane? Zidane? I've heard that name somewhere…"
The criteria she'd set with Mike Garlick and John Banaszkiewicz after convincing them were simple:
- Under 50 years old
- Experience managing in a top league, preferably in England
- Preferably with playing experience as well
- Holding a UEFA Pro License
Once filtered, the list had indeed shrunk significantly.
And most candidates were either currently managing teams or waiting for the right opportunity.
Thus, the odds of them coming to Burnley—a rural English club in the Premier League's relegation zone, almost certainly doomed to drop—were practically nil.
Frank Lampard, an Englishman living as a free agent, had been perfect. Sighing, Helena stared gloomily at the list before picking up her phone.
Whatever happened, contacting the candidates or their agents was her job.
---
Burnley Football Club's training ground, Barnfield Training Centre, was a state-of-the-art facility built on the outskirts of Burnley under the adamant insistence of then-manager Sean Dyche and the full support of then-chairman Mike Garlick.
Completed in March 2017, the 73,000-square-meter complex housed the club's offices, cutting-edge training and recovery facilities, various-sized lecture and meeting rooms, a swimming pool, a sauna, and more.
It also featured one indoor pitch and four full-sized outdoor pitches—modeled after Turf Moor's dimensions and grass—six mini pitches, and a canteen for players and staff.
Helena instantly took a liking to Barnfield.
Sure, it was far more pleasant than the Amazon jungle—where she'd only seen wild animals and bugs in documentaries—or the fully slummed-out factory wastelands of Detroit, which was one reason.
But more importantly, living and eating at Barnfield's offices meant no annoying commute; she could dive straight into work. Plus, if she timed it right, the canteen offered meals curated and cooked by a professional nutritionist.
She handled her personal laundry in the room where players' kits were washed, showered in the Burnley Women's team locker room (upon learning of their existence, she silently vowed maximum support), and slept on the office sofa.
For her chaotic first week in England, Helena happily lived and ate at Barnfield's offices. But her swift attachment to the place ended due to the firm objections of fellow directors Mike Garlick and John Banaszkiewicz.
More precisely, the club staff—overwhelmed by the pressure of an American boss lingering at Barnfield day and night—had pleaded with Mike and John until their cries reached the directors.
Helena, who preferred driving people hard without unnecessary pressure, reluctantly packed her bags to find a new place to stay.
Unsure how long she'd be in Burnley, renting a proper house felt burdensome (truthfully, she just found maintaining a home tedious).
But upon hearing the nearest five-star hotels were a 30-minute drive away in Bradford or Blackburn, she searched and settled on the three-star Holiday Inn Express Burnley M65—45 minutes' walk from Barnfield and 30 minutes from Turf Moor—where she unpacked.
Driving on the opposite side of the road in an unfamiliar country felt daunting, and since the hotel offered washing, laundry services, and a bed, Helena had no complaints beyond being farther from the office.
The problem was the British food. Even for someone who'd managed meals in the Amazon jungle, eating it daily was unbearable.
Inevitably, after suffering through the hotel's monotonous British fare, the miserable American—basking in rare August sunshine amid Burnley's near-daily rain—headed to the town's lone McDonald's.
"Two Big Macs. No, one Big Mac large meal and one extra Big Mac. Swap the drink for a vanilla milkshake. Huh? Takeout? No, I'm eating here."
The employee's look—*"You're eating all this alone?"*—was ignored as Helena handed over her card.
The northwest English accent occasionally threw her off, but at McDonald's, calling out a number sufficed, so there was no risk of a mix-up.
Finally free from torturous British cuisine, she devoured two Big Macs, large fries, and a milkshake at the storied McDonald's, satisfying her junk food cravings.
Content, Helena strolled down Burnham Gate toward Burnley's one and only Starbucks.
The 2.5-mile walk was nothing to her—someone who'd roamed freely through Amazon mining zones and Detroit's abandoned factories—compared to the paved roads of an English rural town.
And so, meeting one of Burnley's few foreign residents and a coworker at that Starbucks was less coincidence and more inevitability.
"Oh? Kim?"
"Ah, hello, Miss Cartwright."
"Good grief, 'Miss Cartwright' makes me feel like I'm being scolded by a professor. Just call me Helena."
"Oh, okay."
Running into his boss on a day off was a hassle, but asking to switch his already-ordered mug coffee to a to-go cup felt too revealing.
Resigned, Hyung-Min pointed Helena to the table he'd claimed.