January always brings with it a pause that feels heavier than the rest. The winter break arrived at just the right moment, and for the first time in months I allowed myself to step away properly. A short visit back to Zarautz, time with my family, familiar streets and familiar silences. I switched off more than I expected to. Being home still grounds me, even if it no longer feels like the centre of my life. Eight years into management now and seven of them away from my home town, I have learned that distance is sometimes the only way to see things clearly.

On one quiet morning there, walking along the promenade where nothing ever really changes, memories came uninvited. Of my brother. Of his death, and the strange way grief reshapes time. Back then, football felt irrelevant, almost insulting in its triviality. And yet it was football that eventually gave me structure again. Training sessions, planning, repetition. A reason to get up and think forward. I still carry him with me into every dressing room, every tunnel. Loss has a way of sharpening perspective. It teaches you what truly matters, and what noise can be ignored.

I checked the tables out of habit and noticed Gernika. After everything, after their extraordinary climb to the second tier, they now sit bottom. It stirred something deep in me. That club will always hold a part of my heart, tied not just to football but to who I was before management consumed my life. I wish them every success. Football owes places like that more than it often gives back.

A fan perspective of Obere Au.

Back in Graubünden, the work resumes with a clarity that feels earned rather than forced. We are becoming a more conjoined unit, not just in matches but in how the club breathes day to day. I think back to my early years, when everything felt urgent, when I chased progress instead of trusting it. Eight years on, I understand that cohesion is not demanded, it is cultivated. With no fixtures for the U19s during this period, we made a deliberate choice to integrate a small group into first-team life. Not as mascots, not as passengers, but as learners. Mentoring groups, carefully constructed, each with a purpose. Mario Silva absorbing the traits of Matteo Gambardella and Xabier Iriondo. Nelio Cortesi learning balance from Tidiane Diallo and Brian Farinas. Jonathan Caramésguided by Zidan Tairi’s creativity and Theo Magnin’s spirit. Habib Sedoum studying positioning and restraint from Alexandre Vayvandez and Brandon Soppy. These details matter. I have learned that careers are often decided in moments like this, far from matchdays. Fine margins.

We sit third in the Challenge League at the halfway point. Four points behind Luzern, four behind Basel U21. A 1–0 loss and a 1–1 draw against Luzern so far, with another meeting waiting as we return from the break. Defensively, we are strong. Organised. Disciplined. Enough to stay alive in matches where reputation says we should not be. That resilience reminds me of the teams I admired growing up, of Clemente’s Athletic, of collective strength over individual vanity. Perhaps that influence never really leaves you.

Offensively, the numbers are harder to ignore. All five of our attacking players underperforming their expected output. Favara, Monserrate, Tairi, Gambardella, Iriondo. Each with a deficit that, on its own, feels manageable. Together, they explain our stutter. I know the deeper reason. We are still living in the shadow of Dion Cakolli. Talismanic players leave more than tactical gaps; they leave emotional ones. Replacing that is never straightforward.

Iker Huerte is close. His shot profile mirrors Dion’s, similar volume, similar quality. But the difference, 0.4 goals per game, is brutal in its simplicity. This is where management tests you. Do you rush? Do you panic? Eight years ago, I might have. Now, I choose patience. Trust. Time. Strikers, like people, need space to become themselves.

Recruitment remains what it has always been for me. Quiet. Observant. Looking for players who do the unexpected, consistently, with data to validate. The squad is settled and happy, and that is not something I take lightly. I think of my family often when I see harmony here. Of how support systems hold you together when pressure builds. Of how, without them, even success feels hollow.

My relationship with Simon Hofer is strong. Stronger than ever, perhaps. He has personally sanctioned improvements to the training facilities at Obere Au, investing half a million euros from his own pocket. He reassures me that despite the noise around overdrafts and finances, there will be no forced sales. No decisions above my head. Trust like that is rare in this profession. I have learned, sometimes painfully, not to take it for granted. It’s one of the things I’ve learnt across this journey: I am the manager, not the owner, not the financer, not the person who balances the books. I answer to Simon and, so far, he backs me. If I want a player and we cannot justify a fee or a wage, we can’t have him. Chur is bigger than me and – hand on heart – I don’t know if I’d have accepted that when I first started.

As I write this, I realise how much these eight years have shaped me. Loss, family, ambition, restraint. Football has been the constant thread through all of it, a framework within which life has unfolded. January reminds me that success and failure are built the same way: slowly, quietly, on details that few ever notice.

Fine margins, yes. But also deep roots. And those, I have learned, matter even more.