I wouldn't say I was the best manager in the business. But I was

Host: The morning fog hung low over the football field, wrapping the goalposts like ghosts of past glories. The grass was slick with dew, the faint smell of earth and sweat rising as the sunlight began to cut through the haze. On the far side of the pitch, stadium seats sat empty, like a silent congregation waiting for the sermon of a game not yet played.

Jack stood near the halfway line, his hands buried in the pockets of a weathered coat, the kind coaches wore long after retirement. His grey eyes tracked the lines of the field — lines he’d once crossed a thousand times, in victory and in defeat. Jeeny leaned against the metal railing by the dugout, a notebook in hand, her hair catching the soft gold of morning.

They were alone. The world still felt like it was holding its breath.

Jeeny: “Brian Clough once said, ‘I wouldn't say I was the best manager in the business. But I was in the top one.’”
She smiled faintly, closing her notebook. “You’d have liked him, Jack. Brash. Brilliant. Arrogant — but right.”

Jack: (grinning) “Oh, I remember Clough. The man had the kind of ego that could power a stadium floodlight. But he earned it. Two European Cups with Nottingham Forest — and not even Real Madrid could touch that kind of miracle. Yeah, he could talk, but he could deliver.”

Jeeny: “And you admire that?”

Jack: “Admire it? I envy it. Confidence like that — it’s rare now. Everyone’s too afraid of being wrong. Clough knew he was great, and he didn’t need humility to prove it.”

Host: The wind picked up, rustling the flags at the goalposts. Jack’s voice carried across the empty pitch, rough and alive with something between nostalgia and challenge. Jeeny watched him — the way his stance changed when he talked about victory, as if muscle memory itself remembered applause.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think there’s danger in that kind of confidence? Arrogance can build a kingdom, sure — but it can also burn it down.”

Jack: “Depends on the fire. Look, Clough wasn’t pretending. He was in the top one. That kind of belief isn’t arrogance — it’s precision. The world punishes people who admit they’re great. We confuse modesty with morality.”

Jeeny: “And yet the truly great don’t need to shout it. Their work speaks.”

Jack: “That’s the fairy tale version. The truth? If you don’t believe in yourself louder than anyone else, no one listens. The world’s built to ignore the quiet.”

Host: A stray football rolled across the grass, bumping against Jack’s boot. He stopped it with a small kick, looking down — the gesture oddly tender, like touching an old memory. Jeeny’s eyes followed, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who still misses the roar of the crowd.”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe I do. There’s something about the noise — the chaos, the energy — that made everything else disappear. Out there, I knew exactly who I was.”

Jeeny: “And off the pitch?”

Jack: “Off the pitch, I was just… surviving. You know what Clough said once? ‘Players lose you games, not tactics.’ He knew — life’s not strategy, it’s people. And people always break your heart.”

Jeeny: “So that’s your excuse? That you were broken by people?”

Jack: “No,” (he smirks, but his voice falters) “It’s that I was built by competition. Without it, I’m not sure I know how to exist.”

Host: The sunlight pierced through the fog now, illuminating the field in streaks of amber. The grass shimmered. The stadium — empty, but alive with memory — seemed to lean closer, listening. The echo of distant chants hung in the air, ghosts of crowds long gone.

Jeeny: “You know, Clough was brilliant — but he was also infamous for burning bridges. Leeds United, Derby, even the FA — he couldn’t keep peace with anyone. His strength was also his undoing.”

Jack: “Because he refused to kneel.”

Jeeny: “Because he refused to bend. There’s a difference. He demanded loyalty, but he couldn’t always give it. You can’t lead people by standing above them forever.”

Jack: “Maybe. But he did lead. He took men no one believed in and turned them into champions. You think he could’ve done that by whispering affirmations? No. He demanded greatness, and he got it. Sometimes leadership means being the storm.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it means knowing when to let the storm pass.”

Host: Her words drifted across the pitch, soft but sharp, like wind slicing through fog. Jack’s expression changed — the smirk faded, leaving something raw, almost regretful. He kicked the ball again, harder this time, watching it spin away into the goal net with a dull thud.

Jack: “Maybe he went too far. But tell me this, Jeeny — how do you win without a little madness? Every genius in history had an ego the size of a city.”

Jeeny: “Not every genius. Mandela led without ego. Gandhi too. So did teachers and mothers and countless people who never had crowds chanting their names.”

Jack: “They weren’t trying to win trophies.”

Jeeny: “They were trying to win hearts. Isn’t that harder?”

Host: The air seemed to still for a moment. Even the birds above quieted. Jeeny’s voice lingered, gentle but undeniable. Jack’s shoulders lowered. For the first time, he looked less like a man defending himself and more like someone remembering how to listen.

Jack: “You know, when I was managing my own team — nothing like Clough’s level, of course — I thought shouting louder made me stronger. I thought fear drove performance. It worked, sometimes. But it also drove people away.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse of the ‘top one.’ You think greatness is a solo act, but it never is.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve led something.”

Jeeny: “Hearts, maybe. And hearts don’t follow orders — they follow connection.”

Host: The sun broke fully now, the fog lifting like a curtain. The field glowed green and alive again, as though it had been waiting for this moment of confession. Jack bent down, picking up the ball, turning it in his hands — its surface rough, worn, and real.

Jack: “Maybe Clough’s line — that whole ‘top one’ thing — wasn’t arrogance after all.”

Jeeny: “What do you mean?”

Jack: “Maybe it was irony. Maybe he knew the truth — that the best aren’t the ones who win most, but the ones who change the game. He did that. And maybe, in his way, he was laughing at himself. At all of us.”

Jeeny: “So you think being ‘top one’ isn’t about being above others?”

Jack: “No. It’s about being unforgettable.”

Jeeny: “That’s dangerous, Jack. People chase being unforgettable and forget to be kind.”

Jack: “And some chase kindness and forget to live.”

Host: The wind swept through the stands, carrying their laughter into the open morning. It wasn’t mocking — it was weary, honest, human. Jeeny closed her notebook, her fingers brushing the cover as if sealing something important inside. Jack tossed the ball lightly toward her. She caught it.

Jeeny: “So, where does that leave you, coach?”

Jack: “Not the best,” he said, smiling quietly. “But maybe in the top one.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “That’s dangerously Clough of you.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’m learning from the right man.”

Host: The sunlight fell full across their faces now, washing away the mist and shadows. Behind them, the stadium seats gleamed in rows of pale gold. The ball rolled between them once more, silent, waiting for the next game, the next story.

And as the day opened wide over the field, their laughter echoed against the empty stands — a reminder that true greatness isn’t just about winning, or even leading. It’s about daring to believe you belong in the top one — not above others, but among them.

In that fragile, shining morning, the field didn’t need applause. It already had the truth.