U.S. striker Jovan Kirovski left sunny San Diego three years ago to train with one of the world’s most glamorous teams.
Culture shock is something that never entirely disappears. Mine hits early one January morning when I’m being driven into Manchester. My host points through the drizzle and at a housing block on the outskirts of the city.
“See that?” she says. “My boyfriend’s parents used to live there. But they had to move — they got burgled two or three times too many. The last time, the burglars cooked a meal in kitchen and ate it in the living room before they turned the place over.”
She puts on one of those what’s-the-world-coming-to smiles and shakes her head. Even though I’ve clued up on Manchester, read everything from the music scene to the rise in drug-related crime in the burgeoning northwestern city, I’m left wondering why anyone, let alone an 18-year-old Californian kid, would want to live here.
Manchester never gets good press. In England, if you want to see the sights, you hit London, Bath or Stratford. Even Liverpool, Manchester’s neighbor and nemesis, carries some inexplicable sentimental charm — the town that gave you the Beatles and Liverpool FC. The place where personality has been elevated into performance art.
Yet Manchester is remembered for the following: Rain, the industrial revolution, urban blight, and failed Olympic bids.
But it does have a trump card: Manchester United. A trip to Old Trafford is sufficient to see why Jovan Kirovski traded in the soft option of life in the suburbs of San Diego for a shot with the reigning English League champion.
The night before, 40,000 fans saw Eric Cantona shred Coventry with the lethal accuracy of his passes. More comforting for the club’s manager, Alex Ferguson, was the large presence of what the tabloids dub “Fergie’s Fledglings.” Six of the players came through United’s youth ranks, which saves considerable cash for a club that turned profligate spending into an art form a decade earlier.
The scent of a packed house that’s now accustomed to success is enough inducement for any star-struck youngster. A visit to the club’s museum — five English pounds a throw — clinches it, for the young and young-at-heart alike. The club’s trophy room is lined with silverware: from the English league title, FA Cup and Charity Shield — all of which the club won in the last year — to the numerous titles it has won in the past.
What really catches the eye, however, are the youth teams from years gone by. Glancing at the team photos you can see the young Dennis Viollet and Pat Crerand; Bobby Charlton with hair, Nobby Stiles with hair and teeth; and separated by three decades, yet both smiling shyly from under mops of dark hair, United’s twin media darlings, George Best and Ryan Giggs.
Then there’s the 1994 crop posing proudly with the FA Youth Challenge Trophy. In a matter of months, players like Nicky Butt and Paul Scholes made a quantum leap from youth- to first-team soccer and the European Champions’ League entirely due of the dearth of English players at Old Trafford.
It wasn’t exactly a Cinderella story: United was annihilated by Barcelona at the Nou Camp, and a 4-0 mauling coupled with a 3-1 loss to Gothenburg left United on the sidelines with the other Euro wanna-bes.
The really telling feature of those hopeful youth photos are the faces of the other players, the ones that never made it. Some, like England captain David Platt, succeeded with other clubs, others just slid down the leagues and drifted out of the game altogether.
Simple arithmetic tells part of the story. From thousands of young hopefuls, United selects about 40 players per year. Of that intake, the club estimates that only 10 percent will succeed.
One of the members of that 1994 youth team was Kirovski. He’s also progressed, to the reserve team. And, at an age when most teenagers still have posters of their idols pasted on their bedroom wall, Kirovski scrimmages with them. The likes of Paul Ince, Giggs, and Cantona are training partners.
“I like Cantona,” says Kirovski. “He does things that nobody else can do. He’s in a league of his own. He’s definitely the best player in the league.”
It’s late afternoon and we’re sitting in the lounge of a pub. Kirovski cuts a tall (6-1) , lean (175 pounds), healthy figure. A baseball cap is pulled down over his bleary eyes.
He flew back from San Diego the day before and is just beginning to suffer from jet-lag, having risen at 3:30 a.m. and trained with United that afternoon.
“This is my third season here,” he says. “I came over with the regional team [ODP] and a scout spotted me and asked me to come on trial. And they asked me to stay, so I decided to stay.”
Kirovski arrived in England in 1992. A scout suggested he stay behind and participate in the Milk Cup, an English youth tournament. Kirovski suited up for Glasgow Rangers but plumped for Manchester United at the end of the week. He’s lived with a friend of the family and club associate in an area called Swinton ever since.
“It was a very hard decision to make, we’re a very close family,” says Ubauka Kirovski, Jovan’s mother. “We miss him terribly. But when we see him come from the club, his face lights up like a light bulb.”
Kirovski quit high school after his sophomore year. A promising basketball player — he was playing varsity in both sports after his freshman year — the school’s hoops coach was desperately disappointed by his decision.
Soccer was always going to win out. His father, Zivko, started kicking a ball about with Jovan at the age of five. Jovan followed the San Diego Sockers and his idol, Steve Zungul, and by the time he reached high school he was playing on a men’s team alongside his high school coach.
“I knew that if I wanted to really make it, I’d have to come here,” he says. “You know, I had a choice: to stay there or just come here and play. So I decided to take my chances. I always knew that if I didn’t make it, I could just go back to school.”
England and United were not always the first choice. In 1990, the family made a trip to its native Yugoslavia, but sensing the political climate, elected not to leave Jovan with relatives in Macedonia.
In England, the future is not stable. Kirovski has no contract with United, he merely trains with the reserve team and doesn’t receive a penny from them. His family pays for his housekeeping and foots the tuition costs at De La Salle College, a local sixth-form college where he is currently studying for his GCSE ‘A’-levels in business studies and mathematics. Ubauka Kirovski estimates the costs are no higher than sending their son to a mid-range private school.
Kirovski trains with United in the morning, goes to school in the afternoon, and plays pool in the evening with “my mates.”
In England his classmates were “surprised, kinda shocked” to find out about his double life. Stateside, his friends were slightly less effusive.
“They do [know what I do]. But it’s not that big of a deal — they don’t know how big it is. They’re [United] one of the biggest clubs in the world.”
The U.S. Soccer Federation, by contrast, does know about his progress. A year before the World Cup, he attended a national team training camp. Last summer he was on the U-20 team that failed to qualify for this year’s World Youth Championship in Nigeria. He made it to the bench of the senior team that lost 2-0 to England in September and made his debut as a sub against Saudi Arabia the following month. Two goals in four matches bodes well for the future.
Kirovski credits his development as a player to his stay in England.
“I’ve improved a lot as a player,” he says. “On the ball I’m stronger. I’m good in the air and on the ground. Got good vision. Passing the ball. It took about a couple of months to adjust. The other players thought it was kinda strange at first, but when they can see you play, it’s OK.”
Olympic coach Timo Liekoski concurs.
“In England he’s matured a lot,” Liekoski says. “In addition to being technically good his ideas about the game are quite good.
“He seems to do the right things. There’s no struggle with him and he’s never afraid to keep it simple.”
As U.S. Soccer director of coaching, however, Liekoski is less enthusiastic about Kirovski’s exile.
“To be honest I’ve got very mixed emotions regarding what he’s doing,” he says. “Certainly going abroad matures you a lot quicker. But I think it takes a certain type of person to succeed there. And you need the support of your family. You need confidence to deal with things. A lot of confidence and he has it. He’s a very nice, self-contained guy.”
Certainly, Kirovski is serious and unassuming. He relaxes a little when the talk turns to soccer and he’s assimilated well, peppering his speech with anglicisms. And like any self-respecting Mancunian, he hates Scousers.
But crunch time isn’t that far away. United will decide whether to offer him a contract at the end of the season. There is a very fine line between stardom and being a forgotten face on a photo in the club’s trophy room. Kirovski knows this and harbors few illusions about his prospects.
“I’m not sure [about the future]. If I were English it would probably be different,” he says. “If they don’t take me, I’ll find another club in Europe. But I think I have a good chance, a very good chance.”
As we leave the pub, I ask him if, family aside, there’s anything he misses. Almost on cue, the murky skies open and a trademark Manchester rainstorm is under way.
“Yeah,” he smiles shyly. “The weather. San Diego’s got the best weather in the world. This,” he gestures, “this stinks.”
Even for a hardened exile, there are some things you never get used to.
by Soccer America Senior Editor Duncan Irving