Rykers tale – A journey of blocked shots, painkillers and shin pads.


For some, the expectation of managing a club is too much. For others, it’s the fans expectations that cause a coach to crumble. Me? I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought’ – Scott Ryker


It’s quite picturesque where I started out, and it was home for a little while. And like all good stories, there’s women, many actually, I now know not all women are the same but I had to try as many as possible, you know just to make sure. There’s tragedy, many of them as well, exotic settings and a dog, and who doesn’t love dogs??

As with all good stories mine started with a woman, let’s call her Pam. I could understand why she did it, but I’d of liked a bit of a heads up really. It wasn’t until a few years into my career, basically she went off with another man, but he’s not actually a man. He’s a woman that is a woman in everything but the name. He was born a female, given a female name (Rosie), has tits, periods and mood swings, but identifies and dresses like a man. Pam even gave him my favourite pair of slippers as a gift the fucking nut job, but my now ex-fiancé herself identifies as a fucking George Foreman grill, it was the in thing back in those days. So the toaster left me for a lady that thinks she’s a man because, her words not mine, she’s finally found herself. Fucking hell the 2020’s were a weird time!

She also told me I wasn’t the best partner, or lover, or person in general really. Apparently, again her words not mine, I only gave a fuck about football, gear and eventually painkillers. In my defence she didn’t help with my constant sense of being a failure, my ups and downs with anxiety and being bi-polar, chuck in a bit of self-doubt as well, and you can see why we split up. But of course it’s all my fault, not the toasters.

Do you know how hard it is to make it in football? I mean even in a country such as mine, where our football is described as terrible at best, to not being able to get a job, paid or otherwise in football is just depressing man. I’m sure I’m not the first, or will be the last, to fuck it up on the pitch and then want to try my hand off it. But then, why did she have to leave me for someone that’s just as confused as I was? Thanks for being my rock and there for me! (Pam, If you’re reading this and can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic!)

Despite leaving me for a lady that thinks she’s a man, the toaster didn’t actually stop pestering me after she’d up and left. For weeks she’d ring me, ask me if I’d got a job, which I always said no to (which was a lie at least once), then she’d ask what I was up to, but then get in a hissy fit and hang up when I told her I’m balls deep in her sister (this was true twice) or that me and my best pal Jack were sharing copious amounts of blow with 3 Honduran midgets on a beach in Belize (also true, once).

The worlds a big place, and if I couldn’t make it at home then I had to leave. But to where? Where could a nobody in football that was a shit player, with mental health issues, a sort of drug habit and a low self esteem go? As far away from home as I could is the answer. England? Everyone goes there for football, if I couldn’t make it at home I’d never have got on in England at that time. Germany or Italy? Nah, I knew very little German and even less Italian at that time, and plus it’s too mainstream.

Africa? Good shout, but no, not for me at that time. I decided to look a bit closer to home. I was born and raised in Syracuse, New York to a Dutch father and a mother from The Bahamas, a weird combination I know. But I’m a Dutch American, which helped in my pursuit of a job in football. I’ll also point out here that despite being raised in America and watching Major League Soccer, because of my Dutch roots and the fact I hate the word soccer, I’ve always called the beautiful game by it’s proper name, football.

Don’t ask me how it happened, it just did. But I got a loan that I had no intention of paying for, I wouldn’t be back home for a while anyway. I got on the plane and said goodbye to Uncle Sam, for now.

The first thing I noticed when I got off the plane was the smell, it smelt fucking horrendous! Jack said he thought it smelt like helicopter fumes and that sweaty smell in the gym, and he wasn’t wrong! But I got over that by having plenty of late nights at the local hot spots, and putting things in powder form up my nose and forgetting about it pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before I was into the groove of it at my newest employers however, and things really got going for me in football.

Going back to my Dutch heritage, my dad mentioned that clubs in Dutch colonies would probably look at it me early on. So off to Aruba I went. It sort of just happened really. One minute I was in New York trying to explain to my soon to be ex partner that I was going to make it as a football manager, the next I’m being announced as the new manager of Aruban club Estrella FC

I can’t remember if it was the first day or not but a local had asked me how I’d got the job with no experience. I tried to explain I’d graduated from the New York sports academy with a merit and qualified with a national C licence, but he just laughed that off. So I thought to hell with this cunt and said in Dutch that I’m a strange, self centered egotistical maniac, who was too eager to find new things to have sex with, not just humans either, and that I went to great lengths to find the perfect place to feed my lust for that insatiable desire, so here I am in Aruba. Fair to say I didn’t see him again after that.

You’ve picked up my autobiography, or memoirs because you know my name from 1 medium or another. You’re either interested in my story, or you’re part of a  book club and my memoirs are the book of the week, or it’s on offer in some discount store somewhere. Either way you’re reading this, my name is Scott Ryker and I’ve been a football manager for a while, and I’ve been all over the world.

This is my story.


Next chapter – You always remember your first

4 thoughts on “Rykers tale – A journey of blocked shots, painkillers and shin pads.

  1. Pingback: You always remember your first – Rykers tale chapter 2 | On the Break

  2. Pingback: The beginning of the end, or the end of my beginning? – Rykers tale chapter 3 | On the Break

  3. Pingback: Almost perfect – Rykers tale chapter 4 | On the Break

  4. Pingback: The only way is up- Rykers tale chapter 5 | On the Break

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s