Once upon a time, in a place far from here, a young boy named Bobbilocks was walking through a wood. Some woods are scary places, but this was not one of them. The trees were all beautiful shades of green, the birds were singing sweetly, and rabbits and squirrels were playing in the undergrowth. A fat lazy sun sat low in the sky, and Bobbilocks’ little brown shoes twinkled as he stepped through dappled patches of light.
The story of Bobbilocks Martinez and the Three Seasons
In his first season at Everton, Roberto Martinez used David Moyes’ defence to great effect. In his second, it all went far too shaky. In his third, has he finally found the balance he craves?
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Bobbilocks was not afraid, for the wood was pleasant, but he was lost. He had been walking for hours now, quite without direction, following the winding paths wherever they went. He had spent some time collecting conkers, and some more time trying to knock down apples with those conkers, and then he had devoted himself to the hunt for the perfect stick. Now he had the stick in his hand, but he didn’t know where he was, and so he was quite surprised when he rounded a corner and saw, in front of him, a small cottage.
He went in. Of course he went in, for he was young and curious and happy and when a young boy is curious and happy then nothing can harm him, or so he thinks. As he went in he didn’t notice the sign by the door that read “Goodison.” Nor did he notice the words “Nil satis nisi optimum” carved above the door. For his eye was drawn to a large wooden table, on which sat two steaming bowls of — he moved closer — porridge!
All at once, he realised just how hungry he was. It had been a long time since his last apple. He pulled the first bowl toward him. It was plain and grey, and in his haste he didn’t see the words “Season One” written on the side. He grabbed the wooden spoon and shoveled the porridge into his mouth, then recoiled in disgust. It was good, but it was made in the Scottish fashion, and far too salty. He turned his attention to the next bowl, a delicate and beautiful piece of fine china with flowers painted all around and “Season Two” written on the side in beautiful calligraphy. But again he recoiled, dropping the spoon — fine worked silver — to the table with a clatter. Far, far too sweet.
After a few moments, inspiration struck. He took a half-spoonful from the first bowl, and another half from the second, and popped them both into his mouth at the same time. Perfection! Sweet without being too sweet, and balanced with just a hint of saltiness to bring the flavors out. He gulped it down, half-spoonful with half-spoonful, and felt warmth spread through him. That’s how you do it, he thought. You find the balance. Not too salty, not too sweet.
All at once, he realized just how tired his legs were. He had been walking for hours. Looking around the cottage, he saw details that had escaped his hungry eye. Though small, the cottage was clearly much loved. The floor was stone, meticulously swept, and the windows were old but sparkling clean. The only sign of any shabbiness came on the mantelpiece, where a few proudly displayed trophies had been allowed to gather a thin layer of dust. There was also a fireplace, in front of which sat two chairs.
Bobbilocks went over and sat down. But though the first was made from rich, dark, well-polished Moyesoghany, it was just a touch too uncomfortable The back was too rigid and the seat too hard, and his little legs dangled uncomfortably above the floor. The second was no better: the softness of the cushions quite overwhelmed him, and for a terrifying moment he felt as though he was being eaten alive by voracious furnishings. The legs creaked ominously. He escaped, a touch panicked, and readjusted his blazer and shorts.
Once again, he found a solution. Taking a couple of cushions from the second over to the first, he soon had a perfect compromise. He relaxed, and luxuriated in the warmth of the fire. Just like the porridge, it’s all about finding the right balance. You need a strong spine and a solid framework, otherwise it will fall to pieces. But you need some cushioning too. No use being solid if nobody’s enjoying themselves.
After sitting for a while, all at once Bobbilocks realised that it wasn’t just his legs. He was tired, all of him, what with all the walking and the porridge and the thinking about the world. So he hopped off his chair and set off to explore the rest of the cottage. He went up some blue-carpeted stairs and found a large bedroom. Pictures of blue-shirted footballers were hanging on the walls, and two beds rested against the far wall. His tired bones sang with joy. He took off his shiny brown shoes.
The first bed (which, though Bobbilocks didn’t notice, was below a picture of a pale, angry man) looked serviceable, if unspectacular. The mattress was firm and strong, though the blanket was thin and, try as he might, he simply could not get warm. Whereas the second (below a picture of a laughing man in a natty suit, who looked just a little bit like Bobbilocks himself) looked inviting and cosy. A riot of pillows and soft toys and plump duvets.
But once he was inside, he felt just as uncomfortable. The thick duvet felt almost oppressive, the mattress sagged and gave, and he could barely breath in amongst the explosion of pillows and cuddly toys. Eventually, after he found a stuffed elephant under his back, he decided to take action.
After much to-ing and fro-ing with pillows and blankets and cushions and stuffed animals, he managed to arrive at something close to ideal. Not too austere, not too warm; not too firm, not too soft. He closed his eyes, and thought about his day. He thought about his long walk through the woods. He thought about saltiness and sweetness, and softness and hardness, and on the one hand being useful, but on the other being beautiful. He thought that, after all his years on this planet, he was finally beginning to understand the need to find the balance between the first and the second extremes. A contented smile came to rest upon his face, and then, just as he was about to drift off to sleep, he heard a noise from downstairs ...
* * *
... and back in Liverpool, Roberto Martinez awoke from a deep and blissful sleep. He felt as though he had dreamed and dreamed well, though try as he might, he couldn't remember a single detail. But he smiled, nonetheless. It was the first day of a new season's training, and he was happy. He felt refreshed and energized, and he knew what he had to do.
More to the point, he knew what Everton had to do. A balance could be found between the solidity of the first season and the vulnerability of the second, a balance that kept things tight but didn't sacrifice style. He smiled again, and began to get ready for work. He didn't even stop to wonder why his mouth tasted of honey and salt.
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